Sessions
by Cu Chulainn 1945
Summary: AU where instead of getting off scot-free, Gold's sentence for beating up Moe French is five hours of therapy a week. Archie, not being a traditional therapist, takes this in some very strange ways. This session: fishing.
1. Session One: Fishing

**So here we are, like dipsticks, beginning another story while our Stargate fics cry from neglect and Kid Whisperer remains mostly stagnant. This one was inspired by a lack of nearby computers (inspiration always hits when one is far away from keyboards) and the fact that you like to touch yourself at night.**

**O.o**

**Disclaimer (lol wtf since when?): I do not own Once Upon a Time or Humanitarianism. I just own a psychologist. He sits in my closet and goes, "We should talk about this. How does locking people in closets make you ****_feel_****?"**

**He says it's all because of my mother, but I disagree.**

* * *

"Dr. Hopper."

"Yes, Mr. Gold?"

"… What are we doing here?"

Archie looked around him. For a moment, he found himself lost in the scenery again. The river before them was blue and sparkling, surrounded by earth so brown and positively fluffy that it looked like cake. They were looked upon by lush trees and bushes on all sides; wildflowers popped out of the ground at random. Best of all was the incessant sound of crickets emanating from every (godforsaken) nook and cranny. Not cicadas, not birdsong – crickets.

Mr. Gold scowled and crushed a cricket. That snapped Archie out of his daze. He remembered Gold's question.

"We're fishing," he said, holding up the poles. Mr. Gold had refused to carry his own out of spite, which left Archie with both fishing poles, the bait-box, the net, and the cooler full of snacks. Gold's lip curled.

"I can see that," he snapped – clearly, trudging through the forest with a therapist did little for his mood. "My question, Dr. Hopper, is _why_ we are doing it."

Archie hummed, which was his general code for 'interesting thought; I'll respond once I've put down all these fishing poles.' He dumped everything on the ground and let his feet slide out from under him as he started clumsily looping the string. Mr. Gold just watched him, waiting for an answer.

"Fishing is therapeutic," Archie said finally. He handed the pole off to Mr. Gold, who promptly set about fixing Archie's tangled line. "I believe that for some people, traditional therapy just won't work. And while I'm not much of a traditional therapist to begin with, this seemed like a good beginning."

"Fishing," Gold checked, saying the word distastefully.

"Yes."

"Well, Doctor, let me know how that goes for you."

Archie nodded absently, trying to bait the hook. It wasn't until several seconds went by that his eyes widened and his head snapped up, looking around. Mr. Gold was walking away.

"Mr. Gold!" Archie cried, scrambling to his feet. He trotted over, easily catching up with the other man and grabbing him by the arm. "You, uh, you can't go – um, the judge said –"

With a very sour look, Mr. Gold yanked his arm away. He stared Archie down for a moment, his mouth a thin line and his eyes dark. Archie was frozen; his brain had melted under threat of the pawnbroker's wrath.

Then something in Mr. Gold's hard gaze relented, and he gave a weary motion for Archie to return to the bank of the river. They both sat down this time, Archie with his legs folded and bundles of fishing line in his lap. Mr. Gold just stared gloomily out at the water, one leg drawn up and one stretched out.

Finally, Archie managed to get his worm (well, technically, it was some sort of minnow) on the hook, and he handed the smelly jar off to Mr. Gold. Gold raised an eyebrow at it, as if he hadn't noticed its presence before, which Archie only found likely if Mr. Gold suffered from chronically clogged sinuses. And Gold didn't seem like an allergies sort of guy.

"What exactly are we fishing _for_?" Gold asked him, looking genuinely confused. Archie blinked.

"Um … fish?"

"Well, _obviously_," Gold snorted. "But what _kind_?"

"Oh." Archie's brow furrowed; he stared across the water in thought. "Well, I – I don't really know what kind of fish live in … in rivers. Not clownfish, I suppose."

Mr. Gold let out a choked sound that might have been an aborted laugh. If it was, Archie was sure the laugh had been a bit derogatory, and he was glad he didn't hear it. Gold turned to him with eyebrows raised, eyes hooded, and his lips curled in a crooked, patronizing grin.

"In this river," Gold said slowly, "there are striped bass, Atlantic salmon, trout, alewives, smelt, and shad. If you're going for the bass, Dr. Hopper, you're going to need sandworms, not dead minnows. If you're going for atlantic salmon, they swim in schools and won't approach the shore. Besides, they prefer their minnows live."

Archie wilted a little. Mr. Gold just went on.

"The trout in our river are stocked, which means they eat marshmallows –"

"_Marshmallows_?"

"The alewives are small and useless unless you want to use them for bait, which is against our regulations thanks to the lovely Madam Mayor. The smelt would choke to death on your minnows. And the shad are only worthy of being caught if we wish to migrate to a different river and use said shad to catch catfish."

There was a pause. Mr. Gold glowered at the river. Archie stared down at his fishing rod.

"I'm sensing that you believe fishing is a waste of time," he said. Mr. Gold scowled, but didn't answer. "And I think your negativity has to do with your discomfort surrounding the concept of therapy."

Gold scoffed, still not looking at Archie. "Very good, Doctor," he said. "You've read the 'Humanitarianism' section in Psychology 101."

Archie decided not to concentrate on the fact that Gold could identify his methods. He hooked a minnow to Gold's hook and pressed the pole into the other man's hands.

"Let's see how many big fish we can catch from the shore," he said. Gold snorted, but after a while of Archie staring at him expectantly, he cast the line.

"So," said Archie when the bait had time to soak, "you know a lot about fishing."

Gold grunted.

"Did you go fishing often, as a child?"

"I lived in_ Scotland_, Doctor. What do you think?"

Archie had no clue how to respond to that, or what he was supposed to think.

"What part of Scotland are you from?" he asked. Gold shifted a little. He looked around until he spied the cooler, then pulled it toward him. For a moment, Archie thought the man was actually going to make use of the ridiculously delicious peanut butter and jelly sandwiches Archie had packed, but Gold just used the cooler to prop up his fishing pole. Archie wilted a little.

"I'm from a small village," said Gold shortly, making sure the pole wouldn't fall down.

"Like Storybrooke," Archie responded.

"Smaller."

Archie bit his lip, rolling his eyes upward in thought. "Like …?"

"Like I knew everybody's birthdays by the time I was five."

Archie nodded. There was a tug at his far-off line and he jumped, sat up straight, ready to reel it in. Then he realized it was just the wind.

He sat back incrementally, hoping Gold hadn't noticed his excitement.

"You knew everyone's birthdays when you were a toddler?" he asked, trying to distract. "That's very impressive. If _I'd_ known that, my parents would've set me up as some sort of tiny psychic at the fair."

Gold didn't answer. Time for the 'genuineness' policy – and as Archie thought about it, he realized that was exactly what it was called in the Humanitarianism section from his textbook in Psychology 101. The thought almost made him frown.

"My parents," he said earnestly in an attempt to forget textbooks, "weren't very nice people."

He thought he saw Gold roll his eyes. Archie continued his tale.

"They were petty thieves," he explained. "We used to con people a bit. My parents pretended they were furniture movers, and while I distracted the, ah, targets, Mom and Dad would take the most expensive pieces and sell them later on."

Gold seemed completely unimpressed and a little bored.

"Would you like to talk about your family?" Archie suggested. He realized he'd leaned forward until he was at a thirty degree angle, and promptly righted himself.

"No."

"I'm sensing some resistance," Archie said. Gold barked out a laugh.

"_Really_? Well, _I _never would have seen it. I understand now how you earned that – what was it, again? _M.D._?"

"Yes."

"Well, at least we know where your usefulness lies. If you get a hook stuck in your lip, you're fully qualified to perform first aid. Although, judging from earlier conversation, I think you're more likely to speculate on the fact that it's_ there_."

There was a bit of a pause.

"That hurts me," Archie said. Gold's lips thinned and he refused to acknowledge his therapist, which just gave Archie the opportunity to continue his earlier line of questioning. "Freud believed that if a … a _client_ refused to talk about something – if they lapsed into sudden silence, or changed the subject – it meant that subject was the source of great psychological frustration. Do you think your family is a great source of psychological frustration?"

"What family?" Gold asked. Archie blinked, momentarily stumped. He'd never heard of any other Golds in town, that was true. Mr. Gold never had family members to his house for a visit; he never went on trips to see them for the holidays._ It must be lonely_, Archie thought, struck by the thought. _One man with no friends - nothing but pawned garbage and a big empty house_.

He looked over; Gold was staring out across the river with his brow furrowed, eyes squinted just a little against the sun. His expression was closed off, stony, just a little close to scowling.

"How about some lunch?" Archie asked.

Carefully, he placed the propped-up fishing pole into Gold's hands and dragged the cooler closer, looking inside. He took out two wrapped sandwiches, handing one off to Gold.

"It's peanut butter and jelly," he explained. "The peanut butter's store-bought, but I made the jelly myself. It's called candy apple jelly. It's made with Red Hots."

Gold stared at him. Archie flushed and stuttered on.

"A-And I wasn't sure if you liked crusts or not, so I just cut them off."

Gold picked the plastic wrap off his sandwich and held up two diagonal cuts of white bread, red jelly and creamy peanut butter lined up perfectly with each slice.

"Chuffing hell, Archie," he chuckled. "It's not a _date_. You're acting like a forty-year-old woman desperate for the man she's going out with to _like_ her. I wouldn't be surprised if you planned a moonlit dinner for two in the woods."

Archie's face turned bright red. Gold gave a self-satisfied smirk.

"You didn't account for one thing, though," he told the doctor. Archie's eyebrows knotted in confusion. He looked around – he'd brought everything they'd need! Drinks, chips, paper plates and Styrofoam cups, some sort of salad Ruby told him was a 'picnic staple.' Unable to see anything, he turned to Mr. Gold with a silent plea for enlightenment.

"I'm allergic to nuts," Gold said simply, and handed him back the sandwich.

Archie stared down at it, dumbfounded. He continued to stare at it as Gold turned back to his fishing pole, humming tunelessly.

Apparently, Mr. Gold _was _an allergies sort of guy. Well.

"I'm so sorry," Archie told him, rooting through the cooler for something else. "I didn't know. Um, I brought potato chips –"

"No thanks."

"Salad? Deviled eggs?"

Gold shook his head. The corner of his mouth was twitching upward in what might have been a stifled smile.

"Juice?" said Archie desperately. Gold turned to him, finally allowing the smile to show.

"Archie," he said comfortingly, "it's fine."

Archie hesitated, one hand still in the cooler. He looked down at the remaining snacks. "It is?"

"Yes. It's fine."

With a sigh of relief, Archie sat back. Gold watched him, actually looking friendly for the first time that day.

"If I get hungry," he said pleasantly, "I can always catch a striped bass."

Archie's heart sunk.

"You know. With dead minnows."

The doctor swiped a hand over his face and sighed.

"From the shore."

"Thank you, Mr. Gold," said Archie wearily. "I get the point."

Gold returned happily to his fishing.

He wasn't really allergic to nuts, but he sure did hate therapy.


	2. Session One: Archie's Notes

From the Desk of Archibald Hopper:

Patient: Mr. Gold

Session One Notes

Before the Session:

I don't think Mr. Gold will respond well to typical lie-down-on-the-couch-and-talk methods. Sheriff Swan tells me he's a very stubborn man and that he knows how to "snake around a question like some sort of … wormy fiend. A snake, if you will." If that's true, traditional therapy will most likely become a terrible game of cat and mouse.

Snake and cricket, if you will. I'm pretty sure snakes hate crickets.

Anyway, I decided that we'll try and get out and about for our sessions. I don't think Mr. Gold likes the idea of publicly coming to my office, so I'll try and meet him at home as much as possible. For the first session (today), we're going fishing at the river in the woods. Note to self: find out what that river is called so as not to look dumb.

I got all the fishing supplies already, since I've never been before. I got two fishing poles, which I hope are the right kind. I don't know if there are different kinds or not, but there sure are different brands, and since I liked the Pinocchio-themed ones so much, I almost walked out of the store with fishing poles two feet long. The cashier tells me they're for children.

He also says they don't have adult fishing poles with Jiminy Cricket on them. I asked him why, but he just said, "Because." I don't think he likes me.

Anyhoo, I got the bait. There are lots of different kinds, mostly what the salesman called "streamers" and these little gooey-looking sparkling things which I think were meant to be fish. I ended up buying a jar of dead minnows, which I chalk up to morbid fascination and getting caught in the moment of discovery that fish are cannibals.

I have packed a foolproof lunch.

I believe the fishing trip will prove very beneficial as a location/theme for therapy. It is peaceful and comforting and rather dreadfully boring, so Mr. Gold will have no choice but to talk. Unless, of course, he chooses not to. I won't stop him. That would be horribly unethical.

The location of the trip – deep and secluded in the woods – seems like the prime choice, as well. I've had many patients complain about the perceived thin-ness of my office walls, and I'm sure Mr. Gold would do the same, if Sheriff Swan is to be believed when she says, "He complains a lot about the thin-ness of walls."

Wait, no. No, someone else said that.

Who said that?

Gosh, I can't even remember.

* * *

After the Session:

Well, that didn't go well. I've discovered Mr. Gold is indeed quite evasive when it comes to personal questions, but he's not quite as close-lipped as Sheriff Swan suggested (or did she say he was moist-lipped? It was something weird, and I remember that it really made me question whether she should be allowed to be alone with him when he's all cuffed-up).

While Mr. Gold was very resistant concerning his past and his family, he did tell me quite a lot about fish. Apparently, I was quite wrong to choose dead minnows, because they get stuck in the throats of sham-fish and most fish in Maine eat marshmallows, anyway.

Well, anyway, I learned that Mr. Gold grew up in a very small village and that by the time he was five, he had memorized the birthdays of everyone in town. This suggests an odd obsession with birthdays. I wonder if he knows mine? He's never sent me a birthday present, so probably not. But I think this obsession with birthdays is most likely a sign of loneliness.

Mr. Gold expressed displeasure at discussing his family, and changed the subject with a segue about birthdays. This suggests to me that his family was not perhaps the most attentive of folk; I think one thing Gold dislikes is perhaps a lack of attention concerning his birthday, both then and now. A lack of strong family connections as a child – especially in such a small, close-knit community – could lead to a feeling of isolation and perhaps a harsh attitude later in life.

This would explain Mr. Gold's general lack of pals. Hmm. Perhaps I should get him a birthday present.

Notes for future reference: Mr. Gold is allergic to peanut butter.

The session ended with Mr. Gold accidentally dropping his fishing pole in the river. I tried to get it, but I think Mr. Gold tried to help me. Due to his bad leg, he lost balance and accidentally pushed me, so I fell into the river. It's very muddy in there. Mr. Gold would have helped me out, but his bad leg probably couldn't take the weight.

In any case, he went to get towels for me. At least, I think he did. He just sort of took the car and didn't come back. I'm sure if I had stayed at the river for another few hours he would've showed up; probably just got lost.

He'll probably bring me a towel tomorrow. Of course, I won't be wet by then, but it's the thought that counts.

Goodnight, notes.

-Archie Hopper, M.D.


	3. Session Two: Pillows

**A/N: Just so you guys know, each session will have a follow-up chapter (or two) with things like Archie's notes on the session, police reports concerning the session, or, on occasion, Mr. Gold's homework from the session. I'll try to make sure the follow-up is posted the same day as the session, that way I don't do that thing I do where there are no updates for months and when you finally get it, it's notes.**

**Just.**

**Notes.**

**Yeah, won't happen.**

* * *

"I don't normally make house calls, Mr. Gold."

"Tough titty."

"… Please don't say that."

Archie shifted a little on the ancient couch. He was sitting in Mr. Gold's living room, which was sparse and very dark. There were heavy sheets of burlap nailed over the windows. Gold was seated in a plush armchair opposite his therapist, but Archie was relegated to the antique sofa sitting just in front of the scratchy curtains.

The cushions were so soft he felt like he was floating. Or sinking, if he shifted slightly to the left. In contrast, the burlap behind his head felt like it would set his hair on fire if there was too much friction.

"Comfortable?" Gold asked.

Archie shook his head, but he might as well have just agreed for all Gold seemed to care.

"Tell me," Archie said, propping himself away from the sinkhole to his left. "Why are we meeting in your house instead of the office? I mean, it looks like you did a lot of cleaning just so I could come here. Why go through the trouble?"

Gold looked around the living room. When Archie said 'clean,' he used the term very loosely. Un-lived-in was a better word for it. The floorboards were dusty but bare, and the furniture was dusty and unused. The burlap looked new, though. And when Archie thought about it, not everything was bare. There were little clean spots where antiques had sat and gotten dusty instead.

Vaguely, Archie wondered where those antiques were now.

"It was no trouble," Gold told him lightly, lounging in his chair. "I hired Moe French to do it. I figured since he no longer has a business, he could use a job."

Archie paled. "You paid a man with a broken arm, a sprained neck, and a broken leg to clean your house?"

Gold smiled thinly. "I didn't say I paid him."

There was a long pause.

"Right," said Archie. "Well. About this burlap …"

Mr. Gold pulled a long face. "Yes," he said, "a sad replacement for the curtains."

"… What happened to the curtains?"

Gold waved one hand in a vague, circular motion. "Fire."

Archie decided not to question that. He returned back to his first inquiry. "Would you like to tell me why we're meeting here instead of at the office?"

Mr. Gold let out a long-suffering sigh. "I'm afraid a certain … irritating public figure likes to hang around your office as of late. I don't like to be annoyed."

Frowning, Archie thought about anyone who'd been spending an unnecessary amount of time around his office. "Sheriff Swan?" he guessed.

"No. Mayor Mills."

"Her son has therapy with me," Archie explained.

"I know." Gold stood suddenly, fetching his cane with a sort of lazy grace. "Would you like something to drink, Dr. Hopper?" he asked. Archie floundered for a moment as one train of thought was derailed in favor of another.

"Um," he said. "Um, no. No, thanks."

Gold shrugged and headed toward the kitchen. He returned with a tumbler of scotch.

"No alcohol during therapy," said Archie instantly. Gold raised an eyebrow at him.

"It's my house."

"But it's _therapy_."

"But it's _my _house."

Archie sighed. "I'm sensing that you feel uncomfortable," he said, ignoring Mr. Gold's rolling eyes. "Is that why you feel the need to drink?"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Doctor, I'm not an _alcoholic._ I'm just thirsty."

"Alcohol is dehydrating," Archie informed him.

For a long moment, Mr. Gold sat with one hand covering his face. Then he sat back, blank-faced, and took a drink of scotch.

"OK," Archie muttered. "Next thing, then."

He reached to his left and yanked the sinkhole cushion off the couch. He pretended not to see the beetles living underneath it.

"Mr. Gold," he said, holding the cushion out far in front of him, "Sheriff Swan – and quite a few other people, in fact – tell me you have anger issues."

"So you rip out cushions from my antique sofa?" Gold asked. Archie gawked at him.

"There are _beetles_ in it!"

Gold shrugged. "It's a fixer-upper."

Archie shook his head in disbelief and reminded himself firmly of the next exercise.

"Last time you showed your anger," he said, "was when you, ah, _blew up_ at Mr. French. Would you like to tell me why you chose Mr. French for that particular … explosion?"

"For heaven's sake, Doctor, I'm not a _volcano._"

"You're avoiding the answer," Archie said. "Although, I _am _sorry if I caused you any offense."

Gold scoffed.

"Explosion?" Archie prompted. With an exaggerated sigh, Gold relented.

"Mr. French stole from me," he said simply. "He deserved what he got."

"You think stealing is punishable by a beating?"

Gold didn't answer.

"That unnerves me a little," said Archie honestly. "I mean, I did tell you about my parents, right? They were thieves."

Mr. Gold just gave him an exasperated look. Archie shifted uncomfortably and held the cushion out again.

"All right," he said. "Well, for this exercise, Mr. Gold, I want you to know that anger is okay. You can scream and yell. You can rant, or swear, or cry. You can even, uh, beat things up. But all I ask is that all of your anger be directed … at this pillow."

There was a long pause.

"Cushion," Gold corrected.

"Cushion," Archie agreed. "Sorry. It's normally a pillow."

"You want me … to rant at a cushion."

"Yes," said Archie.

"With you present."

"… Yes."

Gold stared at him. Archie shook the cushion in a sort of happy, encouraging jig.

"I'm not doing that," Gold said.

"Do you feel uncomfortable –"

"Yes!" Gold interrupted, a muscle in his cheek jumping. "It's a bloody cushion, Dr. Hopper. What the hell am I supposed to get angry about?"

Archie turned the cushion around so he could see it. He looked it up and down, searching for any irritating qualities.

"Pretend it's someone you're angry with," he suggested finally. Gold gave him a disparaging glare. "Here," said Archie. "I'll go first."

He cleared his throat and held the cushion out at arm's length, putting on a stern look.

"Now, Pongo," he said to it, trying to see a Dalmation's spots in one of the various stains, "you know you are not to use Daddy's bed as the backyard. Bad dog. Bad."

He whacked the cushion smartly on the … well, not on the nose, exactly, but … well, he whacked it.

"See?" he said to Gold.

"Seek therapy," Gold said. Archie smiled softly and held the cushion out again, presenting it to Mr. Gold.

"Who are you angry at?" he asked him. Gold gave him a sardonic look that seemed to say 'are you serious?' "It can be anyone. You don't even need to be mad at them right now – just make it someone you can get mad at quickly, and do to the pillow what you wish you could do to them."

"In anger," Gold checked.

"Yes."

There was a long silence. Gold was not forthcoming; he just stared at Archie, eyes narrowed.

"Pretend it's your parents," Archie suggested. "Pretend it's Moe French, or one of your other debtors. Pretend it's a – a bully you knew when you were little. Or heck, you can even pretend it's yourself."

There was another long pause.

"Step away from the cushion, Dr. Hopper," Gold advised. Archie just blinked for a moment; then, with a silent decision not to question, he propped the cushion up and moved to the other side of the room.

With the calm movements of a man well-suited to his actions, Gold pulled out his gun and shot the cushion three times.

Archie's jaw dropped and his mouth worked silently as the smoke cleared and little bits of singed fluff floated to the ground. Mr. Gold put the gun back into his suit pocket, apparently unaffected.

Archie squeaked.

"No firearms!" he managed finally, vaguely aware that he was frantically waving his arms. "What the hell, man? You can't just – just shoot a pillow!"

"You said I could do anything to it," Gold said calmly.

"Not that!"

Gold just shrugged. Swallowing hard, Archie edged the cushion off the couch, stomped out the little curls of fire, and sat down gingerly. Mr. Gold took another sip of scotch.

"So," said Archie when his hands had stopped trembling, "can I ask who you were imagining?"

A slight pause; Mr. Gold seemed to consider his scotch for a moment.

"Moe French," he said smoothly, with a note in his voice that seemed to apologize for being so predictable. For a moment, Archie was simply very glad that Sheriff Swan had rescued Moe French when she did.

It wasn't until later that he thought Gold might be lying.


	4. Session Two: Archie's Notes

From the Desk of Archibald Hopper:

Patient: Mr. Gold

Session Two Notes

Before the Session:

Well, I'm starting over on these notes because Mr. Gold just called and pretty much scrapped all the other plans. Forget them. They no longer exist.

Instead of the controlled session (well, not really controlled. Mr. Gold doesn't respond well to controlled. I think he likes to be the controller; he may have trust issues. Doesn't like having to trust other people with his safety and such. Must look into that. Where was I? Oh, yes.) in my office, Mr. Gold has called and informed me that he wants this session to be in his home.

He didn't tell me where he lived. I guess he forgot. Probably nervous about the meeting. Anyway, I don't have time for BTS notes because – ahaha, that looks like a sandwich name. BTS. Bacon, Tomato … um. I don't have time because I have to find out where he lives now, and I'm not sure where I placed the telephone book –

Sesame seeds! Bacon, Tomato, Sesame seeds. Although technically, wouldn't that be called BTSS? Either way, it's not really relevant, seeing as BTS stands for Before the Session. But I don't think 'the' is normally included in these sorts of things. BS? BS notes? At least it doesn't sound like a sandwich.

Leastways, not one that _I_ would eat.

* * *

After the Session:

I need therapy. I need therapy for therapy. BECAUSE OF MY THERAPY, I NOW NEED THERAPY. For shock. Because my hands won't stop shaking, and I'm very cold, and I think I may have just suffered a flashback, because there's a whole page in my notebook about things like 'He's got a gun' and 'not the cushion' and 'OH HEAVENS ABOVE, MY STARS, MAKE IT STOP.'

… Anyway, during this session, at Mr. Gold's house, I attempted to coax Mr. Gold into a more open state emotionally. I used the pillow method. Of course, I couldn't really get ahold of any pillows in Mr. Gold's living room (he doesn't have throw pillows – why am I the only man in Storybrooke with throw pillows?), I had to use a cushion.

I told him to visualize someone he held a lot of anger toward. Ostensibly, he chose Moe French, but he didn't actually respond until after I'd made several other suggestions, including his parents (about whom I still know nothing, except maybe they're Scottish but heck, maybe not).

Mr. Gold's house is very bare, at least in the room we were in, but it shows signs of recent clutter. I think there are two possible meanings to the quick cleaning job. One of them is that Mr. Gold wished to remove any opportunity I might have for personal insight, which would mean the antiques he keeps in his house are of a more personal nature than the ones in his shop.

Oh, gosh. Antique sex toys? Is that what I'm implying?

Do those even exist? That is _so _not what I meant to imply.

Well, the other option is insecurity. I think Mr. Gold might have been worried that I would see him as a slob, and I was really rooting for that idea until literally two seconds ago when I wrote it down. And now it just seems ridiculous.

You can't hear the crickets from Mr. Gold's house. I tried. You can hear lots of banging and lots of ringing in your ears, but no crickets.

Note for Future Reference: I think Mr. Gold dislikes curtains. I think he likes to burn them. With fire.

Just a hunch.

Goodnight, notes.

-Archie Hopper


	5. Session Three: Works of Art

**A/N: This is my favorite chapter so far. It was lots of fun to write.**

* * *

"I don't like this."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Mr. Gold."

"… No, you're not."

Archie shrugged, hid the smile on his face, and unlocked his front door.

"Don't worry," he assured Mr. Gold, who was standing a few feet away from the doorstep and frowning deeply. "We aren't going to stay long. We're just here for the necessities."

He motioned for Gold to follow him inside and flicked on a few lights. Belatedly, Archie wished he'd thought to stow the cricket trinkets somewhere else. Oh, and that cricket-themed clock. And the cricket salt-shakers. And the cricket-shaped cricket bat. But that was new, and he was secretly a little pleased to show it off.

"What the hell is this?" asked Mr. Gold. Archie turned around to see the other man prodding at a group of fat pillows, most of which had feelers and bendy green legs.

"Cricket throw pillows," Archie said.

"Cricket_ what_?"

"They're for the couches," Archie explained. "They're … padding. Or decoration. Or something."

It occurred to him that he didn't know what throw pillows were for.

"If they're meant for couches," Gold said skeptically, "why are they crowded together on the shelf?"

Archie chose not to answer; not precisely. "I like crickets, okay?" he said defensively. "I'm sure you've got a favorite animal."

"Well, not a favorite_ insect_."

A bit grumpily, Archie moved down the hall to the den. Gold followed him.

"I had to dissect crickets in high school," the pawnbroker mused. "They were so soaked in formaldehyde they were brown. Their insides are actually quite hamburger-like, did you know that?"

"Please stop."

Gold smiled. "We tore off their legs."

With a barely stifled moan, Archie shoved Mr. Gold's words out of mind and headed for his objective – the paint cans in the corner. He could feel Gold's eyes tracking him; he could always feel Gold's stare when it got that intensely sharp.

It was Gold's "I'll kill you" look.

Archie bent and hoisted three cans of paint off the ground. He kicked a package of newly purchased brushes across the floor to Mr. Gold's feet.

Very deliberately, the pawnbroker pushed his cane against the plastic casing and slid the brushes back across the room. They skidded under the couch. Archie just watched them go, and when they disappeared, he turned to Gold with a completely neutral expression.

"Well," he said, "I was going to ask you if you'd prefer to finger paint, but clearly you are so eager you didn't wait for me to offer."

Gold sneered.

"Here." Archie handed him one of the cans, pretending not to notice when the much smaller man stumbled and was nearly weighed down. Gold lifted the can to eye-level with some difficulty and glared at the label.

"Newberry red?"

"Beautiful color," Archie said. Gold let the can swing down to his side. He was looking at the cans Archie held.

"What colors do_ you_ have? And why?"

"I have teal green and bright lemon. And because we're painting."

"Obviously," Gold snapped. "_What_ are we painting?"

Archie let a toothy smile spread across his face. "We're painting a picture," he said.

* * *

There was an old train trestle located deep in the woods, running several hundred feet over Storybrooke's river. The trestle hadn't been used in years – not since Archie was a child – and the boards were mostly rotted, with moss covering them generously.

Off to the side of the old train trestle, connected by a few iron beams, was a newly built bridge. It ran the length of the trestle, and its boards were fresh and clean and strong.

Well, mostly clean.

"Graffiti," Gold said drily, looking at the brightly colored pictures and names on the bridge. "You brought me out here … for graffiti."

He looked first at the can in his own hand, then at the two in Archie's.

"I can't help but feel this isn't how it's normally done," he remarked. Archie just shrugged, smiling brightly.

"I wasn't sure spray cans would work if you angled them toward the ground. I've never actually used them before. Besides, you've got loads more control with a paint brush – or – or your fingers."

Archie let his cans of paint thud to the ground and knelt next to them, prying off the lids. Then he motioned for Gold's can.

Gold let it fall on Archie's fingers.

"Sorry," he said carelessly, barely audible over Archie's yelps.

"That's fine!" the doctor gasped, cradling his hand. "Tha – that's fine."

Keeping the damaged hand tucked safely away, Archie started on the slightly more arduous task of opening a can of paint with only one hand. Mr. Gold eventually took pity on him and smashed the lid in with his cane, which was one way of doing things.

"The whole bridge is covered," the pawnbroker said after a while, scanning up and down the colorful boards. "Unless we're 'tagging,' Doctor, I don't think there's much we can do."

Archie frowned. He wasn't sure how therapeutic it was to … to …

"What's 'tagging?'" Archie asked. Gold just rolled his eyes. He grabbed a can of paint – the Newberry red – and before Archie's panicking eyes, stepped over the barricade between bridge and trestle, walked lithely over the pitted iron beam, and crossed over to the rotten boards on the other side.

"It's clear over here," Gold told him. He set the can down, looked at the mossy boards thoughtfully, and glanced back at Archie. "Are you coming?"

Archie shook his head. Several times. Very, very fast. Gold just rolled his eyes and gave him a patronizing look.

"It's perfectly safe, Doctor," he said. "If you're afraid of the boards, you can always just stand on the beams. Those are sturdy enough, I'm sure."

He laid his cane aside and crouched down, bringing one hand musingly to his chin. Archie hesitated; on the one hand, he feared death. On the other, Gold really looked like he might start painting, which was something that most likely wouldn't happen under different circumstances.

Archie hoisted himself over the barricade and lowered himself very carefully so he was straddling the iron beam Gold had stridden across earlier. Clutching it tightly, Archie slid inch by inch to the other side.

Mr. Gold pretended not to see him. Archie stalled halfway across, where 'sturdy iron beam' gave way to 'how long has this been corroding?' He stared at the jagged, fragile looking metal and slid back a few more inches.

"Um," he called, raising his voice. Gold didn't look over. "Um, right now, we're – we're gonna try and – and paint your feelings. Okay?"

"I need teal green," Gold responded. For a moment, Archie was bewildered. Then he looked behind him and realized with a sinking heart that he'd left the cans of paint behind.

He looked back at Mr. Gold.

"Why do you need teal green?" he asked, hoping to talk him out of it. Gold's answer was swift and matter-of-fact.

"I can't use_ red_ for never-ending sorrow and despair."

True enough.

"Do – do you feel_ lots_ of sorrow and despair?" Archie asked.

"Loads."

"Well, maybe there's a more dominant feeling. Like anger. Anger is Newberry red."

Gold looked at the can of paint beside him speculatively and shook his head.

"No. It's definitely a teal-green type of day."

Archie was feeling plenty of despair himself right about then. He looked back at the paint. How the heck was he supposed to slide backwards? Or was he supposed to just turn around? No way. He'd lose his balance. He'd fall.

He could feel a nosebleed of fear coming on.

"Just gotta turn around," he told himself, staring down at his hands. "Just gotta … turn around."

His eyes roamed from his hands to the endless abyss of water and sharp, pointy rocks beneath him. Those rocks hadn't been so pointy before, but then again, they might actually be shark teeth. He'd heard something recently about sharks in freshwater rivers.

"Dr. Hopper?" Gold called. "My inspiration is starting to lag. You might want to hurry with the teal green."

"Anger is fun to paint," Archie tried again.

"No. Sorrow and despair. Hurry along."

With a deep, deep breath, Archie started to scoot backwards. He didn't like it. What if part of the beam had rotted while his back was turned? What if a bird perched behind him and he ran into it and it attacked his head? He'd fall! And worse, he'd have his eyes pecked out first. Although, if his eyes were pecked out he might fall unconscious, which would make the plunge to his death a tad more pleasant –

Archie bit back a squeak. He made it another inch before his muscles froze up and he found himself unable to move a centimeter.

"Oh, for goodness' sake," said Gold shortly. "I'll get it myself."

Archie's head shot up, eyes wide. Mr. Gold stepped out onto the beam.

"NO!" Archie screamed, hugging the iron in front of him regardless of how dirty it was. Gold froze. "NO, IT CAN'T HOLD TWO! GET OFF! GET OFF!"

"Archie, it's held a _train_," Gold snapped. "Stop bawling."

"GET AWAY!"

Gold muttered something under his breath and took a step closer. Archie pressed his cheek to the beam and screamed as loudly as he could. The pawnbroker faltered and covered his ears.

"WE'RE GONNA DIE!" Archie shrieked. "GET OFF THE BEAM! WE'RE GONNA FALL! WE'RE GONNA GET EATEN BY SHARKS!"

He heard a grumble and then felt a foot planted squarely on his back as Gold stepped over him. Archie went completely still out of fear. He stayed where he was until he felt the foot on his back again, this time made even heavier by the can of paint.

He opened his eyes just enough to see Gold walk away. Slowly, the mind-numbing terror dulled down and Archie managed to sit up. Gold was crouched on the old trestle, his hand moving slowly but steadily across the moss-covered beams. Archie's curiosity came back with a vengeance.

"I'm painting a masterpiece!" Gold called to him enticingly from the other side of the beam. "Oh, Doctor, you should see it. It's so emotional."

"Describe it!" Archie called back.

"Oh, no, no – this can't be put to words."

Archie moaned.

"You'll have to come see it yourself, Doctor."

Archie bit his lip and decided that, really, he wasn't that big a fan of art anyway.

"It's a vital look into the mind of Mr. Gold," Gold informed him. "Very insightful. Could you hand me the yellow?"

Archie just shook his head, hugging the beam. He felt Gold walk over him twice more, fetching the bright lemon paint. Archie just sat stock-still and shook like a leaf.

"Oh, yes," said Gold in satisfaction. "Perfect. It reads like a book, Doctor. Why, I feel like if you saw this, I would finally feel as though you understood. I might share everything."

Archie gave a shaky, shuddering sigh and very slowly pushed himself back into a sitting position. He looked across the beam to Mr. Gold, who gave him a warm, fatherly, and encouraging nod.

Screwing up all of his courage, Archie dragged himself a little closer.

"That's it, Doctor," Gold encouraged. "Good, Doctor. A little further."

Archie pulled himself further.

"Good, very good. You can do it."

He got to the jagged bit and froze for a moment, all of the earlier fear surging back. But this time, there was nothing to hug himself to, just rusty, broken metal. He looked up again at Mr. Gold and saw nothing but warmth.

"Come on," Gold coaxed, voice soft. "You can do it."

With a deep, deep breath, Archie hoisted himself over the corroded space. He made it to the second barricade and stood on shaky legs. Gold grabbed him by the arms and helped him over, muttering happy platitudes the whole time. When they were finally safe (well, safe on the rotted out boards), Gold patted him on the back.

"There, I told you you could do it," he said. Archie gave a weak smile. "Now, would you like to see the masterpiece?"

Archie brightened instantly. He'd forgotten about the masterpiece. A feeling of warm anticipation lit up in his stomach; Gold's trust was at his fingertips.

The pawnbroker turned him around and pointed at the boards.

In nothing but Newberry red paint was the phrase 'Archie sucks.'

"It took a lot of effort," said Gold, wiping paint-stained fingers on Archie's coat, "but I discovered that if I leaned forward while using my cane for support, I could reach just about anywhere. Even the most rotted bits."

Archie just sagged.

"Well," said Gold lightly, "back across the beam we go. You first."

He pushed Archie toward the barricade.

* * *

"Well," said Archie when they'd gained sufficient distance from the trestle and the bridge, "since we … uh, didn't quite complete the assignment –"

Gold made a mild noise of disagreement.

"—I guess I'll have to assign you homework."

Gold froze.

"Mr. Gold," said Archie wearily, "your homework for tonight is to write a poem of twenty or more lines detailing the emotions you felt at an important moment in your life. You're going to read it tomorrow."

"Oh,_ no_," said Gold sarcastically (and with thinly veiled anger), "teacher, not in front of the whole class!"

Archie didn't respond. He was ticked off enough to assign a poem of one hundred lines detailing Gold's most embarrassing sexual experience, but he'd been able to reign himself in enough.

"I don't see why you think I'll do it," Gold sneered. "It's not like you can flunk me."

"I can," said Archie calmly. Gold paused again, his face blank. He looked at Archie searchingly.

"What do you mean_, you can_?"

"If I decide that you're not properly _trying_," Archie stressed, "then all I have to do is tell the judge and he gives you back your original sentence. Jail-time."

Gold stared at him.

Archie shrugged.

"Was it nice out there on your iron beam?" asked Gold nastily when they resumed walking. "I thought I saw a little wet spot on your pants, I hope you manage to get it out."

"Was that a problem for you in childhood?" asked Archie mildly. "Wetting your pants? Because many people project their problems on to others –"

"Oh, cut the therapist shit. It's driving me up the wall."

Archie looked pointedly at the large red paint stains on his favorite jacket, then back up at Mr. Gold. The pawnbroker scoffed.

"What, you want an apology?"

"It would be nice," Archie said.

"So would ice cream, right now. But I don't see you offering to buy, so an apology is currently out of your reach."

They walked in silence for a while.

"Two poems," Archie said.


	6. Session Three: Gold's Poems

"A Poem Concerning Something Emotional, as Instructed By Dr. Hopper, Who is Going Bald."

By Mr. Gold.

Yesterday, I had therapy.

It was on a bridge.

During therapy,

Dr. Hopper tried to cross an iron beam,

Which was perfectly safe and not at all rotted out,

But got stuck on the iron beam.

He was scared.

In fact, I think that Dr. Hopper may have cried a little,

But I don't know for sure as I was painting.

Dr. Hopper stayed on the beam for quite a while,

And never came to see my painting.

I asked him for the teal green paint,

But he refused, as he is a bastard.

Being gracious in the face of fear,

I got the paint and can't think of anything that rhymes with bastard.

Saying bastard again will do.

I walked back to the bridge and continued.

Dr. Hopper stayed where he was.

He may have screamed sometime.

Shite, this is supposed to be about my emotions.

The fact that he didn't look at my painting made me very sad.

What the hell, Gold? It made you very sad?

What are you, _twelve_?

All right, different approach.

As Dr. Hopper refused to give me the teal green,

Which would properly express my despair,

I felt as though-

Hell, those words hurt coming out.

"I felt as though"

Bollocks.

How many lines is this?

Thirty-some? Above and beyond, Gold.

I'm scrapping this anyway.

* * *

"The Other Poem"

By Mr. Gold. Shitty title, that.

This

Is

The

Other

Poem.

It

Is

A

Direct

Sequel

To

The

Last

Poem,

Which

I

Scrapped.

You

Would

Not have liked it anyway


	7. Session Four: The Park

"Let's hear your poems now, OK?"

"Fine. The first one is called 'A Poem Concerning Something Emotional, as Instructed By Dr. Hopper, Who is Going Bald.'"

"… All … right."

Gold cleared his throat and sat up straight on the bench, holding the single sheaf of paper out in front of him. "Yesterday, I had therapy," he recited.

Archie nodded. Gold put the paper down. It blew away in the wind, off to get snagged in the bushes that lined the park.

Archie's nod slowed.

"Is … is that all?" he faltered.

"I couldn't think of anything that rhymed with therapy," Gold shrugged. Archie suddenly felt like he was talking to an extremely unruly and passive-aggressive middle schooler.

"It doesn't have to rhyme," he informed Gold gently.

"I know."

Well, _that _put a damper on Archie's spirits. He bit back a sigh and reached for the briefcase next to him, assuming without much anger that Gold hadn't even attempted the second poem. Oh, well. On to the next bit.

"Mr. Gold," he began, "have you ever heard of Rorschach inkblots?"

"Have you ever seen a movie with a psychologist in it?" Gold countered.

Silence.

"Yes," Gold said. "I've heard of them."

"Great," said Archie brightly. "Then you know how this bit goes. Please answer honestly and fully – every detail."

He held up the first inkblot. For a moment, Gold looked ready to protest, but something in Archie's face must have told him it wasn't worth it. He examined the inkblot.

A minute ticked by.

"What do you see?" Archie asked. Gold hesitated a little, cut his losses, and answered truthfully.

"I see a three-legged man holding a tea kettle."

_Falling in love_, he thought, but didn't add aloud. Archie's eyebrows rose.

"A tea kettle," the doctor mused. "That's interesting. Do you like tea, Mr. Gold?"

Gold took a look at the misshapen tea kettle and the hearts around the three-legged man's head. He meant to say no, but that wasn't quite what came out.

"It's decent," he said. Archie nodded.

"What about people with three legs? I know Freud would say that's a sign of sexuality –"

Gold choked.

"—but I don't generally agree with Freud. He had problems." Archie smiled at him encouragingly. When Gold didn't respond, the doctor talked for him. "You know, some people might call you three-legged, Mr. Gold. What with your cane and all."

Gold shrugged a little jerkily. "I think what most people would call a three-legged person is 'freak,' Dr. Hopper. Perhaps 'monster,' if the people calling names were very young."

Nodding quietly, Archie switched to the next inkblot.

"What about this one?"

Gold narrowed his eyes at it. After a very long moment, he said, "A bell. I see a bell … and a milk bottle."

Archie turned the placard around and blinked at it.

"Um … where?" he asked. Very clearly, Mr. Gold pointed to the white spaces, not the ink.

"That's … that's very good," said Archie, sounding legitimately impressed. "It's a sign of a very strong mind, Mr. Gold, when you look at the white spaces as well as the dark ones."

"They're very small," said Gold neutrally.

"What are?"

"The white spaces."

Archie nodded. "What about this one?"

Gold studied it.

"It's a man … growing out of another man's chest. And the latter man is screaming in agony."

Startled, Archie looked at the inkblot. He looked at the list of 'normal' responses.

'Man growing out of screaming man's chest' was not one of them.

Butterflies were, though.

"What's it mean?" asked Gold with a slight, sardonic smile. Archie hesitated, not sure Gold wanted to hear the answer.

"Well," he said slowly, "basically, it could be one of two things."

Gold nodded.

"You're either psychopathic … or you're gay."

There was a long pause. Archie was scribbling furiously in his notes, refusing to meet Gold's eyes.

"I … I'm not gay," Gold said. Archie nodded.

"I'll write down that you said that." He set the notes aside and picked up another inkblot, holding it out for Gold to see. "What about this one?"

Gold glared at him for a while, then stared at the picture, eyes roaming all over the paper. Finally, he let out a disbelieving sort of chuckle.

"It's a Kalashnikov!" he exclaimed. "It's the same bloody surplus gun they gave to my pla—"

Abruptly, he cut himself off. Archie waited, leaning in eagerly, but Gold was swiftly closing off. His eyes were shuttered; his mouth was tight and his expression grim, foreboding.

Placebo? Placenta? Plantation? Pla, pla –

_Platoon?_

"Let's do something else," Gold suggested, a thin note of a threat lacing through his words. Archie couldn't agree more, though for different reasons than Gold. He put the inkblots aside eagerly.

"Let's do word association, then," he said, trying to seem casual, like he'd planned for word association to be next anyway. "I say a word, and you say the word that first pops into your mind. Don't worry; you don't have to respond immediately."

He pulled out a tape recorder and switched it on. Gold eyed it distastefully.

"Death," Archie started. There was a slight pause.

"Denim."

Archie started to imagine all the reasons one might associate 'denim' with 'death' before deciding to leave it and just go on. "War."

"Pill."

"Soldier."

"Indians."

Archie faltered. _Indians?_ Unless Gold was a veteran of … of the French-Indian War, there didn't seem to be much of a connection with the Kalashnikov comment.

"Kalashnikov," Archie said.

"Food."

Archie was pretty sure one didn't hunt with sub-machine guns.

"Trauma."

"Ink."

Was that a jibe about the inkblots? Gold found it traumatizing to share his thoughts?

Archie decided to try a different route.

"Mother."

"Court."

Archie blinked. "Your mother was … queenly? Or – or was she a lawyer? Was there a custody battle? Was she maybe a judge?"

Gold shrugged.

"OK…. Um, father."

"Fax."

"Family."

"Jur—"

Gold stuttered to a stop, looking pale and panicked at his own faltering.

"Network," he said quickly. Archie pounced on it.

"That's not what you were about to say."

Gold scowled, clearly angry at himself. He looked at his hands and bit his lip.

"Jury," he said eventually. Archie raised his eyebrows, and Gold was quick to add, "But I was only looking for the most random response. It doesn't have any meaning."

"Most random response?" Archie repeated. He looked at the tape recorder, thinking of the words stored up in there. "Is that – is that what you've been doing this whole time? How on earth can you come up with random responses in rapid-fire word association?"

Gold gave him an innocent look and refused to answer. Archie puffed out his cheeks in a very ineffectual glare.

"Home," he said stubbornly.

"Laser."

"Oh, stop that! Answer honestly!"

"Headline."

Archie slammed his thumb down on the tape recorder's Stop button. He shoved the little machine as well as all his papers back into the briefcase.

"Tonight's homework," he said shortly, catching the roll of Gold's eyes but choosing not to comment. "When we resume sessions on Monday, Mr. Gold, we are going to start off with something different. We are going to play a game of Show and Tell."

"A game of _what_?"

Archie smiled. "You are going to go home," he said, "and find something you own which holds great sentimental value for you."

"Oh, joy," Gold snarked. "I'll bring in my paycheck from the day I first breached one hundred thousand in stocks."

"It can be something like a wedding ring," Archie went on. "It can be a blue ribbon from a spelling bee you won when you were a kid."

"Oh, shucks," said Gold. "You mean I can't bring in the blue ribbons I won in all those childhood races, or the marathon I won last year?"

There was a long pause. Archie wasn't sure which one of them should apologize, so he just continued.

"You're going to bring it in on Monday," he said, "and tell me why you value that object. It can even be a picture. OK?"

Gold nodded. Satisfied, Archie stood and turned to leave.

"But, Doctor!" Gold raised his voice. "How am I supposed to fit my first car into your office? I don't think you're equipped for a Rolls Royce – maybe next to the couch."

Archie grit his teeth and kept walking.

"I'll just bring in the Mercedes, then," Gold called. He watched Archie walk away, straight-backed and stern. When the psychiatrist was gone, a look of anger took over Gold's face. He glowered down at his hands, white-knuckled and clasped tightly in his lap.

The mighty Rumplestiltskin. He could plan the most elaborate, foolproof, and intricate of plans, but give him some inkblots and shout some words at him, and he might as well be David chuffing Nolan for all of his finesse.

Gold swept a hand through his hair, took a steadying breath, and started off for home.

* * *

**Cu Chulainn: *holds up inkblot* What do you see? I need it. For things.**

**1945: Um, okay. *glances at inkblot for two seconds* I see a three-legged man with a tea kettle falling in love.**

**Cu Chulainn: With the tea kettle?**

**1945: No.**

**Cu Chulainn: ... I will use this anyway.**

**Mr. Gold's answers to the word association test come from a creative word generator XD Most of the time, the answers fit too well and I had to look for something even more random. Figures.**


	8. Session Four: Archie's Notes

From the Desk of Archibald Hopper:

Patient: Mr. Gold

Session Four Notes

Before the Session:

I think today we'll go to the park. The weather is absolutely lovely out, for February, and I think some fresh air would be great. I've been listening to Henry's theories about whether Rumpelstiltzkin and some chick named Belle had sex all morning. I feel … cooped up.

I'm bringing along the inkblots for today, but I'll get back to the less conventional stuff as soon as I can get the high school to rent their pool to me for a day. Right now, though, we're stuck with the Rorschachs. I wonder what he'll see in them? Maybe he'll see flowers. I somehow always see crickets or puppets or whatnot. It's weird.

And then one time, I saw some lady with devil horns and all night I kept accidentally saying 'Mama.' It was strange.

But I digress.

* * *

After the Session:

Inkblot Number One: a three-legged man with a tea kettle. I couldn't squeeze much meaning out of that one, unfortunately. I do think, however, that Mr. Gold might have a surprisingly negative view of himself. When I asked him what he thought of the idea of himself as a three-legged man, he told me most people would call such folk (i.e., circus freaks) monsters.

Inkblot Number T—

I wonder if that would explain a lot – him seeing himself as a monster, I mean. It could explain why he's so isolated. I've posited before that it could be because of his family, but it might also be because of a perceived need for punishment. But if he sees himself as a monster, why not change his ways?

Anyway. Inkblot Number Two: Mr. Gold likes white spaces. Also, he says there aren't enough white spaces. Methinks symbolism.

Inkblot Number Three: Mr. Gold likes men.

Inkblot Number Four: Now, this one was interesting. He said he saw … something Russian. I don't know how to spell it, but I know it's a gun. And he said it's what "they" gave his "plah."

What's a plah?

I don't know, either, notes. I just don't know.

We did word association after that, and since all of his answers were deliberately random and I'm a little ticked off right now, I won't go into that much except his answer for 'family' was 'jury.'

Speculate as you will, future Archie. Speculate as you will.

Goodnight notes,

-Archie Hopper


	9. Session Four: Gold's Homework

"A List of 'Show and Tell' Options"

By Mr. Gold.

Choice the first: Golden speedo.

Reasoning: It is a "treasured" gift from the lovely Mayor Mills, gods bedamn her.

Argument, as Archie will surely want to argue: "The night my son was made, this golden speedo …"

* * *

Choice the second: Antique cello

Reasoning: It holds sentiment to no one else, so why not me?

Argument, as Archie is a prat: "While everyone else saw this cello as just transportation for packets of cocaine – which, granted, is how it was originally used – I saw past its varnished façade and into the heart and soul …"

* * *

Choice the third: Black arm band from when that dwarf slipped on some ice and everyone thought he was dead because Dr. Whale was asleep and no one checked his pulse.

Reasoning: It was a time of great trouble for me, as I buy my ice cream from that dwarf's general store.

Argument, as Archie makes me want to punch something: "This arm band saw me through several midnight vigils with Sneezy …"

* * *

Choice the fourth: Smith and Wesson pistol

Reasoning: A man's weapon is his closest friend.

Argument, as it's the easiest way to make Archie never want to see me again: "I think my bond with Smith and Wesson began shortly after my first kill …"


	10. Session Five: LGBT

"Before we get to your homework, I'd like to ask you a question. It has to do with your Rorschachs last session. What's your sexual preference?"

"The bed. Or the mayor's desk, I'm not choosy."

"… No."

Gold blinked in confusion while Archie pinched the bridge of his own nose and shook his head.

"Just … no," he said. "That's not what I meant. You know, LGBT? Or S?"

A crease appeared between Gold's eyebrows. His lips moved silently in utter bewilderment. Finally, "… G?"

Archie's own eyebrows shot up into his hair. His hands lifted, momentarily forgetting that there was nowhere for him to write this down – he'd left the clipboard in his office.

"Really?" he managed eventually, realizing Gold was uncomfortably waiting for him to speak. "I … I didn't know that about you, Mr. Gold."

Gold nodded once, slowly. Feeling a bit flustered – he'd never expected to get a confession like that without a fight – Archie tried to think of something else to say. The pawnbroker beat him to it.

"I don't understand," he said slowly, almost apologetically (but mostly annoyed that he didn't understand). "What do the letters stand for?"

Archie's mouth fell open.

Gold waited.

Archie sagged. "You mean you don't know what you picked?" he asked weakly.

"G," said Gold simply, eyebrows furrowing in a scowl. "For Gold."

"… No."

"_No_?"

"No." Archie shook his head. His face was flaming red. "I'm asking you what _sex_ you prefer."

Realization lit up Gold's face, quickly followed by a brief look of scandalized disgust, like he wanted to ask why on earth Archie would make somebody tell him that. Then he shook his head.

"If the letters stand for sexual _preference_," he said, "shouldn't they just be H and H?"

For a moment, Archie didn't understand. "What …," he said, "homosexual and heterosexual?"

Gold nodded.

"You know there's more than just those two, right?" Archie checked. Gold threw up his hands in frustration, falling back against his couch. Archie flinched.

"_No,_ I _don't_," Gold said, exasperated. "This town is doing a _pitiful_ job of keeping me informed."

He glared over his doctor's shoulder. Archie coughed once, quietly, and rubbed the back of his neck.

"So you're straight?" he checked.

"Yes."

"Right." Archie gestured toward the object by Gold's side, willing to leave the whole embarrassing incident behind them. "Um, let's move on to your homework."

"I didn't do it."

"I can _see_ it!" Archie protested.

Gold just stared at him, face stony.

"Show and tell," Archie ordered, gritting his teeth. "_Now_."

Rolling his eyes, Gold grabbed his object and gestured to it in a way that was somehow both pragmatic and flamboyant, like he was subtly making fun.

"This," he announced caustically, "is my beating stick."

Archie's eyes dropped down to the stick.

"On occasion," said Gold, "I have been known to _beat _people…"

Archie gulped.

"…with this beating stick," said Gold. He nodded curtly, as if to punctuate his brief speech, and passed the walking stick to Archie. It wasn't really a _stick_, Archie supposed – if anything, it was a staff, and it was well-worn from age and usage over the years. The wood was smooth and fine, white and almost pretty.

Archie turned it over in his hands, trying to think of any reason this 'beating stick' might be sentimental. His eyes flickered down to Gold's lacquered cane.

"Is this stick … from your shop?" he asked, forcing his eyes from Gold's bad leg. The pawnbroker studied him carefully, the barest hint of a crooked smile on his face.

"Why, doctor," he said finally, "I thought you had more faith in me than that. I was to bring an object special to me, wasn't I? A trinket from my _shop _would hardly do."

Archie hummed in agreement – but uncertainly - and handed the stick back to Gold.

"Tell me about it," he said. Gold handed it right back.

"Already did."

Archie held it out again. "Tell me what it _means_ to you. Why it's important."

Gold refused to take the staff, his eyes turning steely. "I already _did_."

"You told me you beat people with it!" Archie protested.

"Well, maybe I do!"

"Oh, come on –"

Gold snatched the staff roughly from Archie's hands, snapped it right-side-up, and tucked it away beside the couch. He glared at the doctor, daring him to say something. Archie bit back an exasperated cry – the man clearly wanted to talk about it if he brought the freaking thing – and forced himself to speak calmly.

"Tell me about it," Archie insisted, refusing to be cowed. There was a long pause. Gold's arms were crossed and his fingers were clenching the material of his jacket tightly, knuckles turning white. His gaze was averted, eyes glazed, expression stormy. Archie realized with a jolt that Gold was actually – maybe – potentially – going to share something with him.

He thought.

"My father," Gold said slowly (Archie jumped to attention at the words), "used to beat me with that stick."

The doctor's jaw went slack. Gold shifted uncomfortably, avoiding his therapist's eyes.

"I was born lame," he said shortly, "and … when he called me or when he wanted me to do something, and I couldn't do it fast enough … he'd take that stick and beat me 'till I couldn't move. Sometimes the blood dried around my eyelids so I couldn't see 'till Mum decided to wash it off … and that sometimes took days."

Archie's mouth was open in horror. Gold's lips were trembling now; he tightened his grip on his own jacket even more.

"One day –" he started, and choked. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes and steadied himself, and started again. "One day … when I was nine – when we were in the market place – I was trying to keep up with him, and I dropped the bag of food. It ripped, and everything went rolling. …It was the only food we could afford for the week, and I'd ruined it all. So … in the middle of the marketplace …"

The rest of his words were cut off as he tensed, exhaling slowly and trying to calm down. Archie's tears of sympathy were blurring his vision, making Gold's face temporarily obscure.

When his vision cleared again, Gold's lips were still trembling. But then they stopped and he finally let out what he'd been holding in all this time – a smile.

"Kidding," he said lightly.

He smiled. Archie stared. Gold was relaxed again, all traces of sadness – and it had really just been suppressed laughter, hadn't it? – gone. He lounged before Archie on his couch, one hand pulling his cane lazily back and forth across the floor.

Archie stood, left the room, and locked the front door.

He went back past the living room, saw Gold's puzzled frown and thundered past it, and locked the back door.

He went around the house and locked every window. Then, expression furious and firm, he acted as though he was going to sit again – and at the last minute, stole both the staff and Mr. Gold's cane.

"We," he growled right into Gold's look of shock, "are not leaving."

Gold opened his mouth to protest; Archie talked over him.

"We are not leaving this _house_," he said stridently, "and we are not leaving this ROOM, until _you_, Mr. Gold, tell me _why_. _The staff_. _Is special_. _Got it_?"

Gold scowled at him. Smiling a very creepy smile, Archie sat back and waited.

He watched Gold. Gold glared back.

Archie tucked the cane and staff underneath his knees, putting all his weight on them. Gold followed the movement with his eyes, looking positively enraged.

Archie waited.

"You're being ridiculous," said Gold, his mouth a tight and angry line.

"Nope," said Archie.

"_Yes_." Gold was seething. "It's a _stick_, Doctor. It's nothing to get bloody maniacal about –"

"I disagree. Clearly, it's an object of sentiment for you."

"_Oh, really_?" Gold snarled through clenched teeth. "And how did you come to _that_ conclusion?"

There was a brief pause.

"Um," said Archie, "you … brought it in for sentimental Show and Tell?"

There was another pause as Gold admitted to himself that he couldn't argue with that.

"Very well, then," he said, moving on with a new and very dangerous calm. "Well, it's regrettable, Doctor –"

Archie scooted a little further into the seat.

"—but I'm afraid I'll have to shoot you where you sit."

He didn't move as he said it; just sat where he was with his elbows on his knees and his feet planted, fingers interlaced. Archie's mouth went dry.

"You wouldn't," he said. He shifted uncomfortably, gripping the armrests. "What – tell me what the staff means."

Gold reached into his suit. This time, Archie's shifting was less uncomfortable and more panicked.

"Mr. Gold," he said quickly, eyes tracking the other man's hand, "I _trust _you. As your doctor, I mean, and you as my patient, I have _faith_ in you. I think you're a good person. I – I'd even say I think you _don't like shooting people_-"

Gold paused, hand in his suit jacket and eyebrow cocked.

"-much," Archie said. He swallowed. "I want to help you," he went on. "I – I want to – to make you see yourself in a – a _better_ way. Um – um –"

Gold's hand shifted, digging further.

"You won't shoot me!" Archie cried, still refusing to get up off the staff and cane. He squinched his eyes shut and flinched backward, pressing into the chair. "You're a good man! (Deep down.) You wouldn't kill me! _You're not a monster, for heaven's sake_!"

Gold froze.

Archie held his breath.

Then, very slowly, Gold removed his hand from his pocket – and there was no gun in sight.

Archie deflated in utter relief. He breathed hard, heart racing. Gold just shrugged.

"Left it in my other suit," he said.


	11. Session Five: Notes of a Sort

From the Desk of Archibald Hopper:

Patient: Mr. Gold

Session Five Notes

Before the Session:

Feel like I should be asking my crickets things. You see, notes, I had the strangest dream last night – you were involved – where for some reason, all I had done for weeks was write my most lurid and … um, "kinky" dreams in you. My notes. They all involved crickets somehow – I don't remember exactly – but I feel as though you know.

Tell me, notes. Tell me your secrets.

….. Ahem.

Well, as you may have guessed, notes of mine, I am doing these at …. Eight fifty-eight at night. Hence, I am quite slap-happy and should definitely be in bed by now. Perhaps I will take my beloved Pongo and we shall share our bed together for the first time in months.

Why doesn't Pongo love me like he used to, Notes? Do you know? You seem to know everything these days, with your little M.D. after your name and your 'Doctor' before your bloody stereotypical English name.

Archibald. Your parents must have hated you to bits.

* * *

After the Session:

I have determined that I am, in fact, quite homosexual.

**Mr. Gold. Stop writing in my notes. It's a serious breach of my privacy, and if you wanted to see what I wrote about you, I would be glad to show you IF YOU ASKED.**

**And I am not 'homosexual,' you nineteenth century fiend****.**

**And I did not write 'lurid dreams' in my notes. My notes are sacred to me.**

**And Pongo and I ARE NOT-**

**… You know what, I know a certain pawnbroker who's doing dream journals now, just for that. Have fun, you friggin Scottish loon.**

**Jeez.**

**Goodnight, notes.**

**-Archie Hopper, M.D. And Mr. Gold (prick).**


	12. Gold's Dream Journal: Day One

**A/N: Readers, if extremely harsh language offends you, read not this chapter. It is the half-lucid angry ramblings of a very sleepy Scotsman. It is therefore ... notquitekosher.**

**Enjoy.**

* * *

Mr. Gold's Dream Journal

Day One

* * *

**1:15 a.m.:** Oh, _hey_, let's fucking get up at one o'clock to write dreams down. Why not? _I _see no reason why not. Because we are _smart people_, aren't we Dr. Hopper?

You bitch.

I'm awake at one in the chuffing morning because of you. You want to know what dream I had? _I don't remember_. I'm awake at one o'clock, and I have work tomorrow, and I don't even remember the dream.

And you are going to read every word of this journal as revenge, you _fuck_.

* * *

**2:25 a.m.:** Wait, I remembered it. And I apologize, because this is actually rather psychological or buggering shite. So it starts in this forest. But the forest isn't what one would call a standard forest. There were no conifers. The trees were made of babies. I don't know how that works yet, because the library isn't open this early (even though I am ninety percent certain the librarian sleeps there and is simply ignoring my knocks) and the library has free Why-fie, unlike my home.

Y-fie?

Wie-fy?

Wy-fy?

I'm scribbling all this shite out in the morning.

Anyway, the dream. Oh, SHIT, I forgot it all again the fuckingbuggerytoleySHITEcunt . I'm going to sleep.

* * *

**2:39 a.m.:** I hate you. Still awake. Have work tomorrow. To-fucking-day.

* * *

**2:43 a.m.:** I think there was something about … grass?

* * *

**2:56 a.m.:** Do daydreams count? Because I'm having a nice one right now about you and a sharp shaft up your fucking British arse HELL I'M TIRED.

* * *

**4:45 a.m.:** Must have dozed off.

* * *

**4:57 a.m.:** Well, I'm awake _now_. Thanks to you. Might as well get ready for work. Hey, Mr. Gold, want to go to work at five in the morning YES, WHY NOT? SOUNDS LIKE FUN.

You _bugger_. How the hell can I keep a dream journal if I'm up all night thinking about dreams? I hate you.

* * *

**1:34 p.m.**: Dozed off in shop, remembered dream, regret harsh words from earlier but am lacking initiative (or give-shits) to switch notebooks. Besides, I would have to purchase yet another notebook, and since this one, in the light of day, appears to be covered with happy bees … well, it explains the odd looks I was getting at the general store, and I have no inclination to go through that again.

So there was a forest of babies, and … I'm fairly certain that I was a waitress. I had an apron, I know that. At some point, however, I made an abrupt transition from aproned person of indeterminate gender-

Oh, hell. I am definitely switching notebooks.

Goodbye.


	13. Gold's Dream Journal: Day Two

**A/N: I had to keep a dream journal once, for an art class of mine.**

**The following was not one of my dreams, but it kind of follows the style of 'wake up blearily in the middle of the night, scribble down key words, puzzle over it upon waking the next day.'**

**Enjoy.**

* * *

Mr. Gold's Dream Journal

Day Two

**3:15 a.m.**: George Washington. Cookies. Cripples.

* * *

**8:43 a.m.**: I have no idea what the above is supposed to mean. It made sense when I wrote it down. If I recall correctly, spiders were involved and the cookies were shaped like George Washington's face.

* * *

**10:54 a.m.**: I remembered part of it: the cookies were pink. Perhaps salmon-colored. A shade of light red, anyway. Martha Washington was not, in this dream, married to George Washington. She was, however, an obsessed stalker, which is almost the same as far as I'm concerned. That's all I can recall.

* * *

**12:31 p.m.**: Lunch break, and I'm writing in this dream journal. Fantastic. I f I get pickle stains on the pages, you have only yourself to blame. I remembered that there was a crippled servant girl in the dream. She was painting frosting on the wall rather than on the cookies, but I'm not altogether sure that frosting existed in the 18th Century anyway. Martha was very excited about this wall-frosting, as when she slapped some on the sandstone, it assembled a vaguely Washington-esque profile.

* * *

**12:35 p.m.**: She began to worship it.

* * *

**3:21 p.m.**: George Washington, if I recall correctly, was injured in the war and came home crippled. This is not a commentary on myself. George regretfully arrived at Martha, responding to her invitation about the amazing servant girl and her eerie impromptu portraitures of famous war heroes, all of which were done in frosting and looked suspiciously similar to George Washington.

* * *

**4:00 p.m.**: George ate a cookie. He left.

* * *

**4:12 p.m**: At some point, he may or may not have sat. I know there were armchairs involved. Also, there was a very idiotic red-haired soldier in Washington's command who kept trying to help the troops by bringing them ammunition, only to find that the boxes were open and he was carrying them upside-down. This is a reflection on you.

* * *

**10:34 p.m.**: After watching television, I remembered that most of the above was actually an Adult Swim sketch which my weary brain distorted in some areas. I didn't dream last night; I might have passed out drunk.

The incompetent soldier is still a reflection on you.


	14. Gold's Dream Journal: Day Three

Mr. Gold's Dream Journal

Day Three

It is my lunch break, and as I didn't wake up last night, I will do my best to fill this blasted thing up now with what I can remember.

I remember bells.


	15. Session Six: Bells

"You remember bells?" asked Archie, looking up from the little pocket notebook he was flipping through. Gold's expression was stony and blank, not giving anything away. Archie shut the notebook gently and gave Gold his full attention.

"You don't remember anything else?" he asked. "Did you see bells? Or hear them? What was the context of the dream?"

Gold didn't answer. Archie slid his glasses off and wiped them clean, giving the pawnbroker time. He saw Gold's clasped fingers clench a little; when he looked up again, Gold was considering his response.

"They were cracked," he said eventually. Archie's eyebrows rose.

"The bells?"

"Yeah."

"Is that all you remember?"

Gold nodded, his face closed off.

"Well," said Archie, setting the journal off to the side, "that's okay, then. The details aren't usually important with dreams – it's the introspection you get when you look at them. Though Freud might disagree."

Gold just sat there, clearly disinterested. Archie clapped his hands together briskly, introducing sound and getting the little room more energized.

"OK," he said, "does anyone have comments on Mr. Gold's dream?"

He looked around the circle of fold-out chairs. Ruby was filing her nails. Leroy was staring at Gold. Mary Margaret was staring at the floor and blushing.

David Nolan looked around the room and raised his hand. Archie deflated a little.

"David?" he asked. David fixed his eyes on the schoolteacher.

"I had a dream about Mary Margaret last night," he said. Mary Margaret turned scarlet and squirmed. Ruby smirked. Gold gave Archie his most intense glare.

Archie may have left out some details when he assigned Gold the dream journal. He may have left out the support group part.

"We're not talking about you right now, David," said Archie gently. "We're talking about Mr. Gold's dream."

"How come the rest of us have to be all buddy-buddy but Gold?" Leroy demanded suddenly. Archie looked at him.

"What do you mean?"

"Everyone else has to use their first names," Ruby answered for him. "How come Mr. Gold doesn't have to?"

"Because Mr. Gold wouldn't give me his first name," Archie answered, stuttering a little. "Guys, I don't think this – uh, this air of accusation is really helpful right now –"

"What's your first name?" Leroy asked Gold. Gold just stared at him for a moment, eyes hooded and bored. "Come on, if the rest of us have to share, you do, too," the janitor prompted.

There was a long pause. Archie looked around desperately, saw the whole group intent on the pawnbroker, and opened his mouth to change the subject.

"Billy," Mr. Gold said.

Archie's jaw dropped.

"_Billy_?" Leroy repeated, wrinkling his nose. Ruby tilted her head a little, contemplating the name. "Do people actually call you that?"

"For their sake," said Mr. Gold, "they'd better not."

"Well, if nobody calls you that," said Leroy, annoyed, "why not go by William?"

"Because I'm _not_ 'William,'" Gold responded, equally annoyed. "I'm Billy."

"Why?"

Archie could sense an outburst coming on. "OK, OK," he called, clapping his hands again. "Let's focus on something else – er, unless you'd like to talk about your name?"

Gold gave him a sardonic look.

"Didn't think so," Archie said. He looked around the room. "Marco, what did you think of Mr. Gold's dream?"

Marco, who wasn't actually a patient but had been planted there to encourage participation, hesitated.

"Um," he said eventually, avoiding Gold's eyes, "it seemed a little … vague."

Gold's eyes narrowed. Emboldened by Marco's criticism, the other members started to speak up.

"Yeah," said Ruby, "I mean, why write it down if all you could remember was cracked bells?"

"It might be symbolism," David said.

"Was there any music in the dream? Were you Quasimodo?"

"Symbolism for your sex life," David said.

"One at a time!" Archie called, waving his hands. The room quieted as quickly as it had gotten loud. Archie picked up his clipboard and hummed. "OK … Mary Margaret. Repeat your question?"

Mary Margaret's blush returned. "Were you Quasimodo?" she said quietly.

"I don't know who that is," said Gold. Archie leaned closer to him, whispering.

"The hunchback," he said quietly. Gold just stared at him, face blank. "You know? From The Hunchback of Notre Dame?"

"The what?"

"Never mind."

Self-consciously, Gold reached one hand up to his shoulders and tried to surreptitiously check for humps. Archie motioned for Mary Margaret to go on.

"Well," she said bashfully, not meeting Gold's eyes, "Archie told us he thought you suffered from –"

Archie waved his arms frantically back and forth.

"—self-esteem issues, so I thought maybe –"

Gold's expression was the picture of rage. He turned it on Archie, who went white and shrank back in his chair.

"He also said you're lonely," Ruby piped up, grinning. "And your father used to beat you."

Archie gave her a disparaging look.

"He said you're a pyromaniac!" Leroy jumped in. Archie squawked.

"I said no such thing!"

"But about the self-esteem thing!" Mary Margaret cried, talking over them. Gold turned to look at her in something similar to disgust. "I mean, don't you guys think that would explain a lot? About – uh –"

She turned white just like Archie had, intimidated into silence by Gold's glare. By then, though, Archie had regained his steam.

"I think what Mary Margaret's trying to say," he said smoothly, "is that your, uh, negative demeanor toward the townsfolk may possibly be a result of negative feelings you have toward yourself."

"That's rubbish," Gold said.

"You think you don't have any negative thoughts toward yourself?" Archie checked, letting the words trail. "You've never done anything you've regretted, never blamed yourself for something that went wrong?"

Gold was silent, staring at the psychiatrist with wide eyes. His face was still blank, but he was listening. He was listening very closely, Archie could tell. The group was watching with bated breath, startled at the turn of events.

"Are you perfect?" Archie asked.

"_No_," said Gold, affronted. "But that doesn't mean I have self-esteem issues."

"Well," said Archie, spreading his hands invitingly, "why don't you tell us about some of the things that you've done wrong? Just the big stuff's fine. Don't worry about all the little things."

Gold scoffed, folding his arms. His eyes flitted around the group, like he was looking for help. Or an escape route.

"I rather regret therapy," he said casually, caustically. Archie's eyes were soft.

"You feel uncomfortable opening up about your feelings," he translated. "You're scared.

Leroy sniggered. Gold glared him down, lip curled.

"Am I right?" asked Archie.

"No."

"Really?"

Gold just rolled his eyes in response, but his arms were crossed a little tighter in defense. The other patients glanced amongst each other, uncertain.

"Tell us," Archie urged, staring intently at Gold even though the pawnbroker wouldn't look back at him. "Start when you were little. Are there any negative thoughts you have about yourself that come from your childhood? Something your parents said, or other people told you?"

Gold glared at the ground, jaw clenched.

"What about your family?" Archie prompted. "Do you ever feel as though you let them down somehow? Like you didn't do enough, or like you weren't there for them?"

Gold chest expanded as he sucked in a deep breath and he moved his gaze farther from Archie, staring in the opposite direction. He was facing Ruby now, though he wasn't looking at her. Ruby caught sight of the red rims around Gold's eyes and the dampness there. She stood abruptly, grabbing her purse.

"I gotta go," she said, already marching toward the door despite Archie's stuttered protests. She signaled the others with her eyes - she wasn't entirely sure what she just saw, but she knew she didn't want to bear the consequences if she witnessed a moment of weakness from Mr. Gold.

The other patients stood and joined her, murmuring excuses as they left. Then the door closed and the fold-out chairs were empty.

It was just Archie and Mr. Gold.


	16. Session Six: Bells, Part 2

**A/N: Special kudos to RockAndAHardPlace (probably spelled that wrong somehow) for ... I dunno, everything my mind is coming up with makes her sound super-harsh, when she was actually quite nice. So I'll change gears and say thanks to 1945 for kicking my ass, sticking a shaft up it till it tickled my brain, sucking my organs out my navel with a straw, and writing (in the blood gained from aforementioned exercises) WRITE MORE SESSIONS, YOU PRAT.**

**Oh, shit. Left out the tar-and-feathering.**

**Still burns.**

**(Sad chapter, stop laughing or smiling politely)**

**(Get sad)**

**(Dead puppies)**

**(:D)**

* * *

"Mr. Gold?"

The pawnbroker's jaw was clenched and a muscle was jumping in his cheek; he stared unblinkingly at the floor. Across the room from him, Archie sat back and cast his eyes about, looking for a new approach. His pen tapped the clipboard.

"It's just us now," he pointed out, scanning the empty room. "If it's privacy you're worried about –"

"My son," Gold said tightly, eyes bright and expression grim. Archie froze. "I let my son down."

Then he was closed off again.

"I didn't know you had a son," Archie managed. No response – Gold sunk further into a protective shell, the kind that surrounds angry, hurting people and makes them hunch. "Um – how did you let him down?"

Gold shook his head, just once. He didn't look up; he glared at the ground.

The clock counted down in silence.

"Mr. Gold," said Archie again, gentle. "Do you need to step outside?"

Gold lowered his head further, so that Archie couldn't even see his eyes, and then shook his head no.

"My son was in trouble," he said quietly, voice strained and fluctuating. "I got him out of it. And I changed when I did."

"For the worse?" asked Archie.

In a snarl, "Would I regret it if it were for the better?"

Silence.

"So you changed," said Archie. "You let him down. How?"

Silence. Gold sniffed once and finally looked up, turning red-rimmed, angry eyes toward the wall.

"Mr. Gold?"

"I lost him," said Gold shortly. "He may be dead. That's all."

And that was all Archie could get out of him.


	17. Leroy's Captain's Log 1

From the Diary of Leroy

Dear Diary, what is my last name? I don't think even I know for sure. Once, it was on the nametag of my janitor clothes. Once, but no more. Now, all I have is an alcohol-stain and a lipstick-written love note from someone named Ben. And no nametag.

I wonder why they give us nametags? Maybe it's because of that one time. You know, back when I was a stand-up comedian, I once got stage fright so bad I forgot my own name. I was so angry afterward that my good friend Steve Colbert (I call him Steve, all his buddies call him Steve) started calling me after that dwarf in Snow White – 'Grouchy.'

Well, it wasn't really 'Grouchy' – but you understand how Disney is with copyright these days.

Ba-dum pssh.


	18. Leroy's Captain's Log 2

Dear Diary, today I have support group. Friggin Hopper says I have an alcohol problem, so I have to attend _therapy_. I tell you what, if any of those noobs in group ask me to talk about my feelings, I'll be out of there and in a bar faster than my good friend Jimmy Fallon from my stand-up days could say "gap-tooth." Jimmy Fallon has a gap in his teeth, right? Or maybe I'm thinking of another Jimi.

Ba-dum pssh.

Oh well. I'll prove to Hopper I don't have a problem. My name is Leroy, and I'm an alcoholic – yeah, right! I'll show him, or my name isn't …. Leroy.

Just Leroy.

….


	19. Leroy's Captain's Log 3

Dear Diary, today in support group, You-Know-Who was there. And if for some reason you don't know who You-Know-Who is, THEN YOU ARE NOT ME, SO GET OUT OF MY DIARY. IT ISN'T EVEN A DIARY! DAMN IT, IT'S A CAPTAIN'S LOG!

Anyway, You-Know-Who's all like "I'm not talkin'" and we're all like "You have to this is group." But he's a prick. And then we started talking 'bout our dreams and dream journals and Hopper was all like "Mr. GoYOUKNOWWHO I MEAN would you like to share a dream?" And Gold was like "no" and Hopper made him and Gold was like "I had a dream about bells."

Who has a dream about bells? Well, I may not know who dreams about bells, but I know what the bells in You-Know-Who's dream were singin'! "Looney Tune," that's what, as my old colleague Jim Carrey might have said. I was in stand-up once, you know.

… Ba-dum pssh.


	20. Session Seven: Miner's Day

"Would you please remove your hands?"

"No, you can't look yet."

"… _Archie_."

Archie hummed; he could hear Gold gritting his teeth.

"If you don't remove your hands from my eyes," said Gold, "I will hire Jaws to bite them off."

Archie's hands jerked in surprise, almost coming off. "You'll hire a _shark_?" he squeaked.

"No. I meant the villain from James Bond – with the silver teeth - look, just take your hands off!"

"One more minute."

Leaning over, Archie painted the last letter on the sign; his other hand remained set over Mr. Gold's eyes. Finally, the doctor subsided.

"Aaaand … look," he said, removing his hand with a flourish.

Gold blinked. His eyes adjusted to the sunshine. He stared.

"What the _hell_," he said, touching the wooden contraption with one hand, "is this?"

"It's for Miner's Day!" said Archie happily. "Look –"

He hurried forward, gesturing toward the sign with a little skip.

"A hugging booth!" he said. Gold stared at him like he was crazy. "Like a kissing booth, you know? People will come here, pay a dollar for a hug – man _or_ woman, doesn't matter - and we'll donate the money to the nuns!"

"There are several things wrong with that," Gold said.

"And you'll be the one doing all the hugging!" Archie finished. He beamed, hands clasped, and waited for a response. The sun shone down on his sign; the booth was ready and waiting, and Miner's Day was today.

There was a long pause. Archie's smile faded.

"Well," said Gold, swinging his cane outward, "I'm going home."

Archie jumped in front of him, blocking Gold's path. He held his hands out to stop the other man.

"Mr. Gold," he said, "this is part of your therapy –"

"Yes, yes," Gold snapped, waving a gloved hand. "If I don't comply, jail-time, so on and so forth. I know."

"Oh." Archie leaned back. "Good."

Gold looked back at the hugging booth, his brow furrowed. Archie watched him pensively. The other man looked annoyed and extremely reluctant; even now, he was struggling to find a way out.

"Well," said Gold eventually, toxic but at least a little resigned, "are you going to tell me why we're doing this?"

"Intimacy problems," Archie explained. There was a short pause. Gold raised an eyebrow.

"You think I have intimacy problems," he said, "so you make me … hug people."

Archie nodded. With a loud sigh, Mr. Gold turned away, heading back toward his house.

"ALSO!" said Archie, dancing in front of him. "Also, also! It's for charity."

"For the _nuns_," said Gold scathingly. Archie made a mental note to ask about that later – there was some serious nun-hating going on here, and he was going to get to the bottom of it. Later.

"I'll make you a deal," he said. Gold's eyes sharpened. "You do the Hugging Booth – sit here and comply for the whole day, until I say we're ready to leave – and you can donate the money to a different charity. Whatever you choose."

"The NMNSA?" asked Gold.

"If that stands for No More Nuns in Storybrooke Association," said Archie, "then no."

Gold scowled. Archie watched him, shifting his weight from the tips of his toes to his heels, hands clasped.

"It's no good," said Gold eventually, his tone only mildly nasty. "What the hell is the point in saying we're going to donate the money?"

Archie stared at him, bewildered. "But we are!"

"There's not going to _be_ any money," said Gold patronizingly. "You honestly think the townsfolk are going to be lining up in droves to _hug_ me?"

The speech was meant to be sardonic, scathing. Gold's voice lost steam, though, as the sentence wore on, and it ended on an embarrassingly insecure note. He hoped Archie wouldn't catch it – damn it. The doctor's eyes were already wide and swimming with pity.

He wondered if it would work if he made a correction.

"Don't even look at me that way," he said. Archie nodded. It looked like his lips were trembling. "Oh, for goodness' sake!" Gold snapped. "If I sit down and just do this, will you spare me the after-school lecture? I don't need to learn how to love myself."

Archie got control of his lips and nodded. Gold nodded back once, curtly, and moved behind the booth. He sat gracefully on the uncomfortable fold-out chair that Archie had brought, arranging his coat around him and slipping his sunglasses off now that the glare of the sun on the snow was facing the other way.

"For the record," said Archie, also taking a seat, "I'm sure there are _many_ people who want to hug you."

_Leave it, Gold_, said a voice in the back of his head. _Don't respond_.

"_Mockingly_," Gold responded. He could have slapped himself.

"Well, _some_ of them," said Archie. "But there are people out there who really like you, Mr. Gold! Why, at my – my – uh, book club every month there are _scores_ of women asking what you feel –" His voice faltered. "—like - to hug."

There was a bit of a pause.

"I will allow you one more attempt at that," Gold said. Blushing furiously, Archie passed. "Very well. Then if you don't mind, let's spend the rest of this ordeal in silence, yeah?"

Silence.

Gold nodded once, satisfied, and stared out at the street. It was damn cold out. How long did he have to stay out here? All day? Until the festival started? But the festival wouldn't really start until two o-clock, and it wouldn't be in full swing until about six –

The sound of crumpling paper interrupted him.

"We agreed on silence," Gold said.

"I agreed on nothing," said Archie. He pulled the paper out, straightening it. A little huffily, Gold turned back to the road and furiously tried to remember what he'd been thinking about it.

"I prepared a list of things to talk about," said Archie, interrupting him again. "Don't worry, it's not therapeutic."

"Joy."

Archie cleared his throat, staring at the paper. "Number one," he read, "list your top five favorite representations of the cricket in popular culture."

"_P'tang, Yang, and Kipperbang_," said Gold immediately, ticking it off on his fingertips. "The scene with Wowbagger the Infinitely Prolonged in _Life, the Universe, and Everything_. Err …"

He drummed his fingers, thinking. Archie gaped at him.

"Is it all right if I stop at three?" asked Gold. "All I can think of is this one episode of _Inspector Morse_."

"We're talking about _crickets_," said Archie stressfully, like he was worried about Gold's mental health (which … he was). "You know – the _insect_?"

"I know. I was being sarcastic – you twat."

"OK, OK," said Archie. "Moving on."

He shuffled the papers and cleared his throat, squinting at the words. "If you were on a deserted island," he asked, "what five movies would you bring with you to watch?"

"If I were on a deserted island," said Gold coolly, "I would not be watching movies."

"Why not?" asked Archie.

"Because unlike you, I am capable of getting myself _off_."

There was a long pause.

"I don't think you meant that the way it sounds," Archie said. Gold merely sniffed and wrapped his scarf around his neck a little tighter. "Besides," said Archie, "if you weren't watching movies on the island, what would you be doing?"

"Harvesting electricity," said Gold. "Assuming I wished to stay. And if I did, then _first_ I would go about looking for food and making fresh water."

"_Making_ fresh water?" Archie repeated.

"Well, what would you expect me to do, go _searching_ for it like a _caveman_?"

Archie wasn't entirely sure he deserved the patronizing tone.

"Look," he said, "you can't just _make_ fresh water."

Gold held up a contradicting finger, eyebrows raised. "You can't _make_ water," he corrected, "but you _can_ make water _fresh_. Argument ended."

"We weren't arguing!" Archie protested.

"Yes, we were. And I won."

Gold was the picture of calm collection, his hands folded on the wooden stand before him. A local man – one of the veterinarians – walked by, stopped, and looked up at the sign. He looked at Gold. Gold raised an eyebrow.

Hastily, the vet walked away.

"Why do you think you're so competitive?" Archie asked.

"I'm not," Gold replied.

"You think your behavior is normal?"

"Yes."

"So," said Archie, in summary, "you think the whole world is sort of dog-eat-dog. If you don't fight – if you're weak – you don't do well in life. You have no money, no nice possessions or respect. You're shunned."

Gold stood slightly, wagged the sign at a passing nun, and sat back down with a scowl when she walked away.

"I thought you hated nuns," said Archie suspiciously, his rant momentarily forgotten.

Gold answered him with an inscrutable, calm face turned toward the road. His eyes were hooded and cool, looking almost vulnerable without the round sunglasses he normally wore. He looked like a stately old gentleman, Victorian and innocent.

"Give me the shiv," Archie ordered. Grumbling, Gold handed it over. "If you even _think_ of sticking someone," Archie warned, tucking the broken-off piece of wood into his European handbag, "this Hugging Booth will simply never end."

Huffing, Gold crossed his arms and sat back in his chair. He was still sitting like that, glaring at the road, when the festival began to pick up.

"Mama, what's a Hugging Booth?" asked a small child carrying a balloon. The mother looked around, caught sight of the booth and Gold, and ushered her child on with a pale face.

"That went well," Gold snarked.

"Oh, hush."

It was two o'clock – Archie hushed up naturally, because suddenly people were coming in. The mother whose child had pointed out the booth got out her cell phone and made a few quick texts. Some people in the park saw the booth and did the same; others actually made calls. Gold watched them all with narrowed eyes, his brain churning.

He completely missed the person walking up to his booth.

"Mr. Gold," Mother Superior greeted, dropping a dollar in the jar. Gold stiffened, his jaw tight, as he looked up at her. "Dr. Hopper."

Archie grinned and nodded.

"And what charitable organization are you donating to today?" asked the nun, examining their jar. Archie's eyes slid over to Gold.

"Children's hospital," said Gold with a 'polite' sneer. Mother Superior gave him one of her own.

"How sweet," she said. Gold nodded once, giving a slight harrumph as he did, and sat back. Archie stared at him expectantly. The nun stood with her hands folded in front of her, complacent.

Oh, right. The hug.

Gold suddenly felt paralyzed. Archie nudged him, gently at first, then impatiently.

"Mr. Gold," he whispered.

_Well, shit_, Gold thought. He could feel his face heating up despite his best efforts – things were only going to get worse. With tight, jerky movements, he stood and (catching a thankfully brief look at Mother Superior's smug grin) wrapped his arms around the woman. He tried very hard not to touch her.

He was pretty sure his face was burning. He stepped back and crossed his arms. Both Archie and the Mother were suppressing laughter.

"Well, thank you very much, Mr. Gold," Mother Superior chuckled. "It was well worth the dollar – I'll be sure to tell my friends!"

She turned away.

"Catholic bitch," Gold said. The nun wasn't quite out of earshot, and Archie gave him a scandalized look on her behalf. Gold just grumbled it away, sitting back down. People were definitely looking his way now; their interest was piqued.

"You didn't tell me you turned beet-red when people hugged you," Archie commented.

"Shut up."

"Is it a common thing? Will you blush if I hold your hand?"

"_Shut up_ – I thought therapists weren't supposed to make fun!"

Archie shrugged. He sat up a little, hooking his hands underneath his seat to shift it with him. "Here comes more. Be charming."

"Not my role," Gold hissed at him – but it was too late for talk.

The savages were among them.

* * *

He hugged every filthy janitor in town. He hugged every alcohol-stained bum and every smirking mayor. He hugged the coughing, wheezing, dripping people with colds and he hugged a man named Jim who'd recently been released from the psych ward and was therefore dressed as Thor.

"You know," said Archie as he emptied the jar for a third time that day, "it seems the only people you're not getting action from is the people you're trying to help."

"Sexy single mothers?" asked Gold.

Archie checked again to make sure the jar was labeled 'children's hospital.'

"Yeah," he said. "Sure."

Gold saw Ashley staring at them from across the street. He resisted the urge to stick out his tongue at her and mimed taking a baby away instead.

"Gold," said Archie, "would you stop acting out the Lindbergh Baby thing and _please_ sit down?"

Gold returned to his seat.

"Thank you. Now, Miner's Day is almost over – you don't have to worry long –"

"Regina's been around three times," Gold reminded him.

"Well, she's left now," said Archie.

"She told me she was just leaving to go to the bank."

"Banks are closed," Archie told him. "It's Miner's Day."

Gold looked at him sideways. "_Pretty_ sure that doesn't count, Doctor."

Archie rolled his eyes. They watched as a few latecomers arrived to the festival – Emma, Leroy, Henry, Regina again. Moe French.

Archie sat up straighter in his seat.

"What are you doing?" asked Gold, instantly turning on him.

"Oh?" said Archie with mock obliviousness. "Am I doing something?"

Gold stared intently at him while keeping Moe in his peripheral vision. "There is no _doubt_ you're doing something. What is it?"

"Nothing."

"_Nothing_—"

"Hey, Dr. Hopper," said a miserable voice. It was just on the other side of the Hugging Booth. Gold froze.

"Hey, Moe," Archie said. "Thanks for coming."

Slowly, Gold turned around and met the eyes of the man he'd beaten. Moe was still mostly in casts. He had that silly white thing around his neck (Gold called it a travel pillow when he was feeling particularly derisive) and he was walking with a crutch.

"My God," said Gold, feigning horror, "what happened?"

Archie's face creased. Moe's darkened, becoming nothing short of hateful.

"Gold," he growled. "If you think I'm going to rise to the bait –"

"It's like you've been hit by some sort of massive, swinging truck!" Gold went on. Moe's cheeks were turning a mottled shade of purple.

"All right, now!" he said, pointing with stubby fingers. "If you think I'm gonna take that –"

"Did you see who hit you?" Gold asked. "Or his license plate number? Quick, go get Sheriff Swan!"

"Gold –" Archie said.

"If you think I'm donating to your – uh – children's hospital -!" Moe started, then wilted a little. He stuck a fistful of dollars in the jar, apologized to Archie ("no offense") ("none taken") and scowled at Gold once more. Gold just stared back, his face just blank enough to get Moe mad again.

"That will be nine hugs," Archie announced, counting the money in the jar.

Gold and Moe both groaned.

* * *

Ten o'clock. The festival was being pulled down around them in the dark; except for a few straggling candle-lights, the party-goers were gone and there was no one to be seen. Archie stripped their booth down in silence; Gold stood nearby, clutching the money bag in one freezing hand and thinking about the horrible ache in his knee. It was shooting up his whole leg; always did in winter.

Plus, his ears hurt. He wished he'd brought a hat – no, he didn't. Regina would have taken pictures. And no hats fit him, anyway. His head was too small – 'weird-shaped,' according to the hat-shops.

Bloody non-professionals.

A few scattered bits of wood fell to the ground; panting slightly, Archie stooped and gathered it all up.

"Well," he said breathlessly, joining Gold, "that's it! You got the money?"

Gold held it up for him to see.

"Good!" Archie praised. "And what did you learn from the Hugging Booth today?"

_That women and children will only hug me mockingly_, Gold thought.

He shrugged.

"Oh, come on," Archie scoffed, struggling with the weight of the wood. Gold almost helped him with it, realized he would have to balance bits of the booth with the money bag and his cane, and decided against it. "You have to have learned something! Is hugging as bad as you thought it was?"

"I never thought it was bad," Gold responded. Archie twisted in an attempt to balance and dropped a few more sticks of wood. "I just didn't want to do it."

This time, the therapist didn't even answer. He was contorting, twisting to his side in an effort to retrieve what he'd dropped without crouching and losing all the rest of it, too. It was getting pitiful; Gold watched him for a few long moments, stuck between setting his things down to help and letting the doctor resolve the matter on his own. He was getting truly uncomfortable – torn between the two options – when a candle-light zipped in out of nowhere and picked up the excess wood.

"Here, Dr. Hopper!" said a bright, high voice Gold recognized as Henry's. The boy took bits and pieces out of Archie's arms, balancing the load. "Sorry I didn't get to come to your booth!" said Henry. "I blew my allowance on X-Men and Mom said I didn't want to spend it there anyway."

He looked over his shoulder, saw Mr. Gold, and nodded a brief, distasteful greeting. Mr. Gold liked Henry – the boy reminded him of Bae, in looks and personality. Only Bae had never been so brusque with anyone but downright villains.

Ouch.

"It's okay, Henry," said Archie. "You know you can always donate at the hospital, right? You don't have to wait for us to set up a booth."

Gold rolled his eyes.

"And," Archie added enticingly, "if you wish to hug Mr. Gold, he needs it _all_ the time. He has intimacy issues."

Gold's mouth fell open; Henry turned to look at him doubtfully even as the pawnbroker tried and failed to formulate a response.

"Also," said Archie, "when you hug him, his face turns bright red."

And before Gold could do a thing to stop it, Henry had dropped his share of the Hugging Booth, shoved his camera phone into Archie's hands with strict instructions to use the flash, and wrapped his arms around the town's most fearsome hugger.

Gold froze.

"You're kind of soft," said Henry with his face pressed against the pawnbroker's stomach. All Gold could see of the boy was his hair – brown like Bae's, but not as fluffy. It reminded him of when his boy was little; when he still loved his father openly, without suspicion or fear.

"Soft like an old teddy bear," said Henry. "Or a mattress that has lumps."

The flash went off a few times from Archie's direction – scowling, Gold broke the spell and forcibly stepped away, displacing Henry with a firm push.

"Hopper," he said threateningly, pointing at the doctor. Archie grinned and handed the camera phone to Henry, who immediately inspected the pictures.

"You're right!" Henry laughed. "He _does_ turn red!"

"Give me that!" Gold snatched for the phone. Henry scampered away, pausing to thumb his nose at Gold when he reached the gate. "Henry!" Gold called. "I _will_ tell your mother!"

The boy was gone, moving down the street. Archie sidestepped to stand next to Gold.

"You'll tell his mother you've been hugging him?"

"It's Regina," Gold shrugged. "In her mind, that's a capital offense."

Contemplative quiet.

"You looked very cute," said Archie a little smugly.

"Shut up."

"Like an indulgent grandpa with his precocious-yet-affectionate grandson."

"I am _not_ old enough to be his grandfather," Gold scoffed. He clutched the bag of money tighter, braised fingertips getting stung by the nylon. "He's practically my son's age."

In mutual silence, both of them cold and tired from the day but thoughtful from the night, they watched Henry make his way home.


	21. Session Seven: Gold's Notes

From the Desk of Archibald Hopper:

An Exercise in Sarcasm: by Mr. Gold.

Diary Entry Number Seven

To Be Read in an Insipid Pantywaist Voice

Dear Diary,

Today, I have set up a Hugging Booth for myself and Mr. Gold! Since I am so sure of myself and not at all awkward or virginal, I've also prepared a list of ice-breakers – you know, like pimps do when they're picking up young women to kidnap, beat, and harass. Or like pimps do, when they teach classes about the same.

I think it will go well.

Because my patient has issues with 'intimacy,' I in all my infinite psychological wisdom, with my shiny medical degree, have decided to make him hug people. Any people! Anyone at all! Of course, he doesn't get to choose which ones because that would be _rational_, and I haven't thought of the fact that some people might hock loogies on his Chanel coat, and that some of those loogies have blood.

(Twat.)

Amongst today's topics, I have also decided to ask him about why he's so competitive, even though he's not. In doing so, I think I will point out lots of really obvious things about competition, because being obvious is _ever_ so much fun! For instance, I think I will point out that competing often gets you better jobs – I bet he doesn't know that! And I'll point out that cowards get nothing-

THIS WILL BE SO MUCH FUN.

Love, Hopper.


	22. Session Seven: Archie's Rebuttal

From the Desk of Archibald Hopper:

An Exercise in Calm Rebuttals

Dear Mr. Gold,

I don't keep a diary. I don't even keep a journal (like you). If my speech about competition bothered you, why didn't you speak up? That's what I'm here for. It concerns me that you think only the competitive can win. It doesn't just make me worry about how you might treat others; it makes me worry that you might be beating up yourself as a result, for not being competitive enough or for not being competitive enough in the past.

Please stop writing in my notes now.

-Dr. Hopper.


	23. Session Eight: Swimming

Some people gave their patients gifts. At least, Archie _thought_ some people gave their patients gifts. He didn't really know for sure – surely, though, somewhere out there, a therapist had once given a guest something for Christmas. Granted, this wasn't Christmas ... and granted, he wasn't exactly looking at hot cocoa mugs or a season box set of Star Trek ...

"Sir?" asked the oh-so-helpful Wal-Mart clerk. "Can I help you?"

"Just a minute," Archie said. He furrowed his brow and stared at the swimsuits. There were racks and racks of them – most of them involving bras – but there were precious few swim trunks, and he had no clue what size Gold was. Finally, with a prayer to God (and to Vishnu as well for good measure), he picked one out and paid for it.

Thirty dollars for a swimsuit.

By crickets, this session had better be good.

* * *

"Try it on."

"No."

"Mr. Gold, please –"

"Archie," said Gold with a thin veneer of patience and calm, "there is nowhere to try it on _in_."

Certain that couldn't be right, Archie looked around. He held the swimsuit in his hands and Gold stood before him, still fully clothed in his coat and scarf, looking more than a little irritated. A quick back-and-forth with Archie's head told him what he'd hoped wouldn't be true. They were surrounded by nothing but pool-lights and bleachers.

Sheepish and shrunken, he turned back to Gold. "You could go out in the hall...?"

"Dr. Hopper," said Gold, "we are standing beside a pool in the local high school. It is February. School is in session. _I'm not changing out in the hall_."

"But –"

"If you wanted me to wear a swimsuit, you should have just told me," Gold snapped. "Then _I_ could've been prepared, _you_ wouldn't have had to smuggle me here, and the swimsuit wouldn't be several sizes too large."

Archie looked forlornly at the swimsuit.

"_And_ a speedo," Gold added with distaste. He stared out at the high school pool, wrinkling his nose. "Why are we here, anyway? Why a pool?"

"You like swimming," said Archie, half-whining and half defensive.

"Oh, do I?" asked Gold waspishly. "I suppose _you_ would know."

Archie glared at him. "... You don't know that it's several sizes too big. Maybe it's ... maybe it's snug; you don't know!"

"It doesn't matter, because I won't be _wearing_ it."

A staring contest was begun. Gold's eyes were narrow; Archie's were wide and baleful. Finally, Archie turned away in disgust (mostly at himself; this really hadn't been planned well) and shoved the swimsuit into Gold's hands. He very deliberately turned around and placed a hand over his eyes. A minute passed in silence.

"What are you doing?" came Gold's voice from behind him. Archie continued staring at the darkness of his palm.

"I'm looking away."

"For what?"

"So you can put on your swimsuit," Archie said. He heard an exasperated noise.

"For the love of –"

"It's your therapy, Gold!"

"We're in the middle of a school!"

"No one's watching," said Archie stubbornly. He started to gesture with his arms, realized that would take his hand off his eyes, and settled for a strange jerk of the shoulders instead. He could feel the heat of Gold's glare. "Would you just change already?" he asked.

"I'm not taking off my underwear in the middle of a high school."

"Gold, I can and will send you back to jail."

There was a long pause. After about thirty seconds, Archie heard the awkward, hesitant shuffle of clothing. Not quite the removal of clothing – not yet – but shuffling.

"Where am I supposed to put my clothes?" asked Gold. "Supposing I do change into the swimsuit."

"Just put 'em on the bleachers," said Archie dismissively.

"And wear the speedo?"

"Yes."

He heard more rumpling.

"I'll just wear my boxers," Gold muttered.

_You're going to have a very uncomfortable walk home if you do_, Archie almost said. Then he decided it was acceptable for therapists to be passive-aggressive, and he just didn't say anything. There was the sound of clothing being removed, about as fast as a crippled man can do it, and then Gold was folding them, placing his coat and suit on the bleachers where hundreds of teenage butts had sat – no doubt rubbing assne all over it – and –

Shuddering, Gold wondered if it was acceptable to just put his clothes on the floor. He straightened his boxers out, glad he had worn the silk magenta ones instead of the ones with the little money signs. Looking back at Archie – who was still facing away, hand over eyes – he cleared his throat.

"Decent?" Archie asked.

"Partially naked, actually," Gold said.

Archie turned around. It was time to start the session.


	24. Session Eight: Swimming, Part 2

"Well," said Archie, looking at the ceiling. He hemmed and hawed a bit, looking everywhere but at Gold's knee. Gold's face very slowly formed into a dark glare. "Um," said Archie, "you ... you wanted to know why we're swimming today?"

_It's not _that_ ugly_, Gold thought resentfully, flexing his right leg and looking at the knee.

"Well," said Archie, "I mean, _I'm_ not swimming. _You_ are. But there's a reason for it."

_It's actually kind of interesting-looking_, thought Gold. He scowled at the knee. _The caved-in section kind of looks like Margaret Thatcher. _

"It's because I was thinking," said Archie, "you're just so private. And water is very ... you know, _free_."

_And the green bits look like grassy knolls_.

"So we get you in the water, swimming ... uhh ... you lose your inhibitions—"

"So it's a plot to get me into bed?" Gold snapped. Archie's face went slack.

"Huh?"

"Nothing. Never mind."

"OK."

Archie slumped a little in the awkward pause that followed, eyes drifting toward Gold's leg.

"Eyes above the belt, Soldier."

"Right! Well, I guess you can just get in the pool then ..."

Gold looked down at the pool, searching for a staircase. His eyes fell on two plastic ladders, each one appearing to be suspended by nothing more than its own ability to float. He looked at Archie.

"I have water wings, if you want," Archie said, holding up a plastic bag.

Gold stared at it, looking sick. "... No."

"OK, then."

With a faint shake of his head, Gold turned back to the pool. He stepped toward the edge. He gazed down into the deep – fifteen feet of water. He nudged the ladder with his foot.

It fell off.

"SHIT!"

"Oh hell!"

"Archie –"

"What did you DO?"

Flopping onto his belly, Gold stretched his arm as far as it would go and waved it at the ladder. Across the room, Archie stood with his fingers twisted into his hair, his face the picture of anxiety.

"Shit," Gold said again. He reached out further, face planted in the concrete. The tips of his fingers hit the ladder and sent it bobbing away. "Oh _SHIT_!"

"Calm down," said Archie. He wrung his hands. "It's just a ladder. It's nothing expensive. Just calm down."

"Says the man developing a new nervous tic," Gold snapped. He leaned dangerously to the left, wiggling as he tried to stand up without his cane. "Would you stop eating your eyebrow hair?"

"Just calm down. Calm down. Calm—"

Gold swung out his right leg, trying to get leverage. He tipped a little, one hand flying out to balance him on the left side. It landed just shy of the concrete – in the water.

"SHI—" Gold began, and ended with a splash.

* * *

"...Gold?" said Archie. The pool was calm and undisturbed. He edged toward it, peering over the side. "Uh, Mr. Gold?"

From the depths of the pool, there was no response. Somewhere in the high school, a bell rang – as the students poured into the halls, Archie stared more and more frantically out at the chlorine-green water.

"MR. GOLD?" he screamed. There was no response.

With a wary glance behind him, Archie started removing the heavier layers of his clothing.

He stripped down and jumped in.

* * *

"I was _trying_ to kill myself, thank you," Gold sniped as they rested by the edge of the pool. Archie had flung his torso up onto the concrete, his legs floating in the water. Gold was leaning on his elbows, hair and face wet, unimpressed.

"And I –" Archie gasped, panting between each word. "—was trying – huh – to save you!"

"You had an asthma attack in the middle of it. As heroics go, it wasn't stellar."

Groaning, Archie laid his face against his arms.

"_Thank_ you, Gold," Gold said. Archie continued catching his breath for a few moments.

"Huh – huh – what?"

"I _said_, thank you, Gold. You know, like you should be saying. To me."

"What?"

"Because I saved your life," said Gold quite smugly. Archie didn't answer. "_And_, I lugged your pasty, overweight body all the way to the surface, even though you are wearing my speedo, and I was incredibly uncomfortable the whole way."

"Oh, shut up," Archie snapped.

"It was homoerotic and weird. You didn't have to change into the speedo before you jumped in. You could've just ... you know ... _jumped_ _in_."

"I would've been naked then," Archie said, voice muffled against his clothes. "I went commando today. Be grateful for what you have."

"Sure."

Archie panted, each breath coming a little bit slower now as his lungs were gaining control. Gold stared around the room, just waiting.

"OK," said Archie when his breathing had mostly evened out. He wiped his face. "I think I'm okay now. Thanks for staying with me – it was really considerate of you."

"No problem," Gold said. "You're my staircase up."

Archie stared at him, uncomprehending. Before the taller man could move, Gold dunked him underwater, used him as a shove-off point, and launched himself out of the pool back onto solid ground. He walked away, shaking water off him, back to his clothes. After a while, he heard splashing and coughing noises as Archie re-emerged and climbed out on his own.

Wheezing, Archie collapsed on the concrete by the pool. He looked up, vision blurry from the chlorine, and saw Gold was already fully dressed, twirling his cane by the door with the plastic bag from Wal-Mart hanging on his arm. Looking slightly to the right, Archie saw his own clothes where he had left them, but now in a puddle of water.

"Ah, yes," said Gold, following his eyes. "Sorry about that. You didn't bring any towels."

Archie stared at him. Gold stared back. He looked down into the plastic bag.

"Water wings?" he asked.


	25. Session Eight: Police Report

Storybrooke Sheriff's Department

Offense/Incident Report

Arrest Number:

Case Number: 09302

Date of Report: 02/23/12

Report Status: Incident [ ] Offense [ ] Felony [ ] Misdemeanor [X]

Investigating Officer: Sheriff Emma Swan

Source of Incident: Dispatch

* * *

**Reporting Person Information**:

Name: Gordon Restley

Occupation: High School Custodian

Incident Classification: Vandalism.

Description:

Reporting person Restley called in a vandalism at local high school, Storybrooke High. Reported strange dents in wall as though a long thin object had been rammed into it (Pole? Cane?). Also reported an adult male speedo, golden, left at crime scene. Speedo was sodden with traces of red pubic hair and the sweat of fear. Also present at the scene was a set of footprints made from water, which have been photographed. Footprints appear to be from Armani shoes of a particularly long and narrow make, indicating someone either very tall or with magnificently skinny feet.

High schoolers report hearing shouting, swearing, and a Scottish accent in the vicinity. Eviscerated water wings were found in the chemistry lab, where several volatile substances were missing. High schooler Britney Essex reports seeing 'that weird guy my mom hates, who dresses like he's gay, only he was just wearing these pink boxers' in the halls.

Conclusion: Mr. Gold has started doing chemistry experiments for revenge. Stay away from his and Hopper's houses.

CASE SOLVED.


	26. Session Nine: The Leg

**A/N: This chapter was one of the first I ever wrote for this story; actually, I believe it was something like the second, right after that long-ago chapter on fishing. Of course, at the time I wrote it, I think we were still in the first season - no clue how Gold got his gimp leg, no clue who Bae's mother was or what happened to her. I've edited out most of the non-canon stuff from the original chapter (and hell, since it was all GOLD'S backstory, not Rumplestiltskin's, was it technically non-canon? I'm rambling) but some of it still remains because ... I liked it :)**

**So that my friends is the origin of anything you see in here that makes you turn into Douchey McNitpick.**

**My loyal readers: "But that didn't happen in the show!"**

**Me: "Shut up."**

**Loyal readers: "But that doesn't even make sense at ALL!"**

**Me: "Oi. Pals."**

**Loyal readers: "...?"**

**Me: "I don't know, I'm bad at threats."**

**Loyal readers: *are let down***

**People reading this author's note: *are let down***

**... OK, so I suck at author's notes. Just read the story.**

**Gosh, this _pressure_ ...**

* * *

In an unexpected twist of fate, therapy that day was held in Archie's office. Archie sat in his usual spot across the table; Gold sat on the couch. Off to the side was a simple fold-out chair that Archie had bought at a garage sale some years back.

"So, Doctor," Gold drawled, "what's in store for us today? Another grand adventure around town? A mock-up of Disneyland so I can properly regress? Hypnosis?"

Archie smiled. "I like that you're so eager, Mr. Gold."

"Oh, just get on with it."

Archie sat back, tapping a pencil against the clipboard he normally didn't get to carry around. It wasn't very practical when one was fishing, or swimming, or setting up a hugging booth.

"I've noticed that you seem to have a problem," Archie started. "Mr. Gold, how do you feel about people touching you?"

Gold's lip curled. "I'm not much for it."

"Yes, I've noticed." Archie leaned forward, gesturing to his right. "We're going to do an exercise. I want you to stand with your right leg stretched in front of you, resting on that chair."

Gold's eyes flickered to the chair. He examined it warily, then looked back at Archie with a questioning expression. Archie nodded.

"Why?" Gold asked.

"You'll see."

With a suppressed sigh, Gold stood and dug his ankle into the seat of the chair, using his cane to balance. Archie walked over to join him, standing right next to the pawnbroker.

"OK," Archie said, "next, I'm going to roll your pants leg up –"

Gold's eyes widened; his lips parted in surprise.

"—and take a look at your scar."

Instantly, Gold yanked his leg off the chair and took several steps away.

"Hell no," he growled.

"Mr. Gold –"

"_No_."

"You have to learn small steps of intimacy," Archie said earnestly, pleading mentally for Gold to listen. "Learning to share things like this is one of those steps. One of the very _first_."

"This is one of the _last_ steps!" Gold protested. Archie took in a deep, weary breath and resigned himself to an argument.

"Tell me why," he reasoned. "Why is this one of the last steps?"

Gold just glared at him.

"Tell me why," Archie warned, "or I'll make you go through with it regardless."

Mr. Gold crossed his arms, clearly displeased.

"My wife saw my scar _once_," he spat. "My son _never_ saw it. It's personal."

Archie raised his eyebrows. "Seems to me like you've got a lot of emotion invested in this scar. I think it would be … cathartic for you to show it."

"My wife saw it _once_," Gold repeated coolly, "and she left me the next day."

Utter silence.

"It can't be that ugly," Archie protested. Gold scoffed. "Let me see it. You can't be worried about _me_ leaving you."

Gold shook his head, eyes dark and angry.

"Mr. Gold," said Archie lowly, "it's this or jail-time."

"It's personal," Gold hissed. "I won't have you gawking at it. And I certainly won't have you bloody touching it, which I'm sure would be your next step in this 'trust exercise.'"

They locked eyes, Gold trying to stare him down and Archie just gazing calmly back, face blank. Finally, he backed away and sat, showing Gold with body language that the issue was over.

"Fine," said Archie. "You don't have to show me."

An intense expression of relief passed over Gold's face for a moment; then he hid as usual behind his mask, sitting opposite the doctor.

"So you _can_ see reason," he said. Archie nodded.

"You have two new options," he told the pawnbroker. Gold looked up at him warily. "Either accept your jail-time in the prison two towns over … or wear shorts tomorrow."

There was a long silence. Gold's mouth was dry.

"You're not serious," he said.

"I am. I'll even let you pick the shorts; you don't have to wear Bermuda ones, I promise."

"You're _joking_."

"Nope."

Gold's cheeks colored in anger; his grip tightened on his cane. "That's ridiculous! Go to prison or wear shorts around town? What the hell kind of choice is that?"

"An easy one," Archie said. "I think you have deep insecurities over your scar, Mr. Gold. I think putting it on display will help."

"Insecurities!" Gold cried. "Of course I have bloody _insecurities_ about it –" His voice cracked, becoming shaky. "It's a scar from –" He cut himself off, pulling in a shuddering breath. His eyes were red; Archie just watched him, unwilling to interrupt.

"From –" Gold tried again. His throat convulsed and he looked away, swallowing. When he looked back, it was with a wavering glare. "I'm not going to do that, Doctor."

"You have to," said Archie mildly. "It's that or jail-time. You've been bending the rules of cooperation since our first session, and this is the end of it. Either do what I said or you can leave. Go to prison – in the city – or wear shorts and show your scar to everybody. It's your choice."

His eyes had roamed while he was talking; after a moment of silence, he turned them back to Mr. Gold and found the other man staring at him. Gold's mask was gone, and now distress was lining every inch of his face. His eyes were wet and horrified; his breath was coming short.

Archie suddenly felt ill.

"I _can't_," Gold whispered, his voice weak and broken. "D– Doctor, I – don't –"

His words strangled in his throat and he glared down at the floor, pretending nothing was happening, trying to make himself small as tears hot and wet coursed down his cheeks. His shoulders shook and he tried desperately to hide it, his hands moving up to cover his face. Archie felt cold horror at himself unfurl in his stomach. Before he knew it, he was across the room, one hand outstretched but not quite touching Gold's arm.

"It's okay," he said lowly, soothingly. His eyes were wide. "It's fine. You don't have to do it."

Gold curled in on himself, trying to stop the tears. Archie gulped, his throat dry.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, feeling close to tears himself. "Mr. Gold, I – I didn't know it would – would make you cry, please stop –"

The room was quiet but for the sounds of Gold's shallow breaths and the ticking of the clock.

"Please stop…"

* * *

Gold's eyes were rimmed with red and he hadn't managed to completely wipe away the tear tracks, but both men were steadily pretending nothing had happened. Gold stood with his back to Archie, while Archie knelt behind him. Gold's right trouser leg was rolled up to his knee, his foot resting on the little fold-up chair he'd seen earlier.

"Coward," Archie read, tracing his fingers over the raised flesh that formed the word. Gold shuddered and clenched the cane tighter. "Is this … a brand?"

"It's a knife wound," Gold said quietly. "They carved it in."

Archie made a soft noise of sympathy and drew back a little, tugging the leg of the trousers down over the scar. He got to his feet with a grunt and moved back to his couch. Gold sat down too, the look on his face clearly saying he had no clue what to do next.

"How'd you get it?" Archie asked. Gold released a slow breath, eyes sliding closed for just a moment.

"Did you know I fought in Vietnam?" he asked. Archie blinked.

"Wha – really? Aren't you … kind of young for that?"

Gold shrugged, his eyes flat. "I was eager," he said. "A willing participant – wanted to prove myself. You'll find it hard to believe, I'm sure, but when I was young all I ever did was prepare for war. For the army. And besides, my age was no matter. I was ... I was abandoned when I was little. I didn't have a birth certificate – and I was married despite my age, had a wife, so they took me at my word."

Gold's face was bitter as he stared down at the floor.

"And …?" said Archie.

"I never fought," said Gold. He was silent then, for what seemed like ages; he kept his gaze steady, stern and stony, on the wall. Archie stared at him. "I went through training and one night ... the night before my platoon hit the jungle ... I learned my son was born, and that we were going to be deposited straight into VC territory." He made a slicing gesture with his hands, one over the other. "They were putting us in to make room for the men behind us. We were a sacrifice. So that night, before we left ..." He shrugged, affecting indifference. "I shot myself in the foot."

Archie gaped at him.

"They sent me home," said Gold with another shrug. "Back to my wife. My son. Dishonorable discharge, but really, there's not much restriction on me. I can't rent library books, but since Storybrooke doesn't _have_ a library..."

"God," said Archie. He leaned back, settling in the chair, one hand rubbing his neck. He stared at Gold's (now covered) leg. "And they ... just ... carved that in there?"

"Aye."

"Who?"

He made a gesture – dismissive, all-encompassing.

"Gold," said Archie a little more sternly. "Who did it? Was it your officers? Because – I mean, hell, you gotta be able to file a complaint for that, something –"

"No," said Gold simply. He breathed deeply and sighed a little, not seeming sad, just resigned. "It was the people in my town – the town before Storybrooke. It's no matter."

He paused for a long time, waiting for Archie to make any additional comments. There were none forthcoming; Archie could only sit there, rubbing his neck, staring. Finally, Gold shifted a little, sat up a little more.

"Session's over," he commented, tilting his head toward the clock. Archie's eyes flickered to it and widened in surprise.

"Oh," he said mildly. "Wow. I guess so – gosh, that sure went fast."

Gold inclined his head. "Yes," he said, voice dripping in irony. Archie met his eyes, dark and bitterly amused, bottomless. "Time flies when you're having fun."

They concluded the session for the day.


	27. Session Nine: Archie's Notes

**A/N: I be trashman, littering teh Interwebz with my Wordpad-trash.**

**This episode brought to you by Johnson & Johnson: No More Tears.**

* * *

From the Desk of Archibald Hopper:

Patient: Mr. Gold

Session Nine Notes

Before the Session:

My plan for tomorrow is to tackle issues of intimacy with Gold. I think he has sort of deep-rooted difficulties with this, considering as he has no family members, no friends, and no girlfriends (or boyfriends? Still a question ...). Therefore I am going ahead with the Yaxley Treatment.

Step One: Share a secret.

I don't plan on going too far with this one; I believe I'll have him talk about his bad leg. It's not too personal so it'll be an easy start. Sort of like an icebreaker. I'll be all like, "Hey Mr. Gold, show me ur leg," and he'll be like, "Yah bro, no probz," and then he'll show me it.

...It isn't sexual.

Step Two: Delve into further secrets

With the not-at-all invasive icebreaker I have planned, we should be able to discuss pretty much everything else. I plan on asking him about his family. I think he was probably kept in a closet without any food or light for most of his childhood or something; it would explain why he's so snappish Monday mornings.

Step Three: Discuss the closet where he was kept as a child and/or still lives in now

Isn't it weird that Yaxley makes provisions for this?

Step Four: Breakthrough

It is at this point that the patient should break down in tears, see the light, and hail me as his savior for the rest of eternity (according to Yaxley). Mr. Gold is kind of tough, so I think he'll hold out longer than most patients. I give him five minutes from the moment I start repeating, "It's not your fault."

"No, Mr. Gold. It's not your fault."

"It's not your fault."

...

I am a therapeutic _genius_.

* * *

After the Sheshion:

And a few drinksh at Granny'sh:

Gosh I'm drunk:

Well Yaxshley ish a fuckin twat.

Twatface.

Twaaaaaaaat.

Ugh.

Goodnight, notesh.


End file.
